


Holds No Sway

by graphic_winged_observer



Series: Two Lone Alphas [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Werewolf, Gen, Mild Language, Out of Character, WereJohn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-19
Updated: 2012-07-21
Packaged: 2017-11-10 07:21:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 18
Words: 25,314
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/463679
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/graphic_winged_observer/pseuds/graphic_winged_observer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Primal attractions don’t always work out at first and you can't hold back the flood once the damn has failed. Blood flows through the streets of London these days, but that doesn't stop Sherlock from trying to solve the animalistic crimes committed by John purely to get the Consulting Detective's attention.</p><p>((Now locked for users only as I'm working this into original fiction.))</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Catching A Scent

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The characters of Sherlock Holmes and Dr. John Watson created by Sir Author Conan Doyle.  
> The setting of Sherlock (BBC) created by Steven Moffat and Mark Gatiss.  
> I do not own these characters, I’m just borrowing them for this idea.

Heat waves rolled along the rooftop, the heat of the day lingering long into the midnight hour. Her smile was genuine, his was genuinely fake, but it worked. Show her something, that’s the line he had used, on oh so many girls with an eighty-seven percent success rate; it was less effective on men. She never doubted for a minute that something was amiss. She stared, star struck at the size and closeness of the moon, quietly asking if it was full. Something in the way he said not yet made her turn, the half smile on her face faded when she saw how he looked at her.  
  
Lips curled to reveal teeth she didn’t remember running her tongue along a half hour ago. Her mouth dropped open in shock. He smirked, hearing the scream rise in her throat. In a moment, he was on her, his jaws clamped tightly around her precious, slim throat. Muscles twitched haphazardly as rich crimson splashed onto the gravel rooftop. Gurgling escaped her slack mouth, eyes wide with terror. She pawed uselessly at the man around her throat. Her mouth stretched into a silent scream as his fingers dug into the flesh of her fit stomach. Her would-be voice vibrated in his jaws as he brought them together, before yanking his head from his victim.  
  
Her body went limp in his arms, her mouth wide, her eyes suddenly dead. He dropped the lifeless corpse from his grip, struggling to get the amount of meat in his mouth down his throat. He crunched her larynx between molars before the sweet flesh slid into his stomach with an almost audible PLOP. Cracking his neck to the left first, then the right and stretching his tight muscles, he let loose a satisfactory growl.  
  
He knelt next to his victim, his clawed fingers tearing into her thin club wear before cutting a y into the flesh of her chest. Precious moments slid by as he worked his fingers beneath her flesh, his practiced hands flaying the tissue between her skin and ribs. His fierce yellow eyes twinkled as her blood swam around his strong, dexterous digits. He snarled at her ribcage as he peeled back the large flaps of skin to reveal her insides, sickly red tendrils breaking with a snap as the skin came to rest at her sides. One solid punch broke through her ribs allowing his left hand to slide beneath the splintered bones.  
  
Finding his prize, he gave a jerking pull, loosing her heart from its place in her chest. His eyes widened in marvel at the once alive organ in his blood drenched hand; a sight that he would never tire of. A low growl exited his throat as he smiled. He turned it, letting the moonlight bounce playfully along the arteries as they voided blood over his already stained digits.  
  
With a sickening SQUELCH, he sank his fangs into her heart, easily tearing it in half. In a few chews, he swallowed the organ before hastily shoving the other half in his mouth. It wasn’t long before the whole heart was reunited in his gut. Standing to face the moon, he threw his head back and released a monstrous howl, excess blood draining down his chin, staining his knit jumper red. He stared through heavily lidded eyes at the moon, his tongue flicking flesh from between his fangs.  
  
His taught muscles began to loosen, his claws sliding painfully into recess once again. He grunted as his jaw popped, his teeth regaining their human size. The sclera of his eyes paled back to white as the yellow orange irises returned to their natural hazel state.  
  
John Watson dropped hard to his knees, his painful transformation complete. He closed his eyes and just sat on his heels, breathing heavily while he waited for his heart to calm. John tipped his head back, opening his eyes slightly, hearing the very distant wail of police sirens. Sudden exhilaration pushed a manic laugh from his gut. When he stopped, John could still hear his laugh ringing out against the clear night. The crimson spillage caught his eye and a wicked grin danced on John’s lips as he surveyed his kill.  
  
“Another one for the papers,” he whispered, her blood catching in his throat. John shakily stood; his knees threatening to lower him to the ground once more, in a state of near intoxication from his activities. Three steps away, he bent to one knee, trying to catch his breath and will the queasiness from his gut. A quick shake finally cleared his head. Standing, he grinned at the almost full moon.  
  
“Tomorrow, my love.” John blew a wet kiss to the moon before breaking into a hard run and jumping over the alleyway to the adjacent building. He quickened his pace, jumping over the London rooftops as he streaked across the city away from his kill and the wail of sirens that would find her. A sudden rumble of thunder paused John in his tracks. He turned to see the moon hidden from sight by storm clouds. He stuck his bloodied tongue out at the clouds, giving a quick sniff. The coming rain did little to hide the airy scent of the moon from him.  
  
John turned for home when a third scent peaked in the air. He turned back, sniffing the air in earnest for a scent that had no business being found in a city like London. Indian spice, cinnamon, ginger, and the faintest hint of smoke and ammonia alighted the air. For the briefest moment, John lost control. His sclera quickly darkened to black and his eye color shifted dramatically.  
  
He cast his bright eyes to the street below him, scouring for the source of the smell. John’s eyes bounced from one human to the next, his nostrils flaring as the scent became stronger. He placed his bloody hands on the roof edge and looked straight down. The flash of a woolen coat was all John had seen, but the scent that wafted from it left little doubt in his mind that he’d found what he was searching for.  
  
His eyes reverted to their respectable state as he left red handprints pushing from the street. This man of intriguing scent lived in London, so it wouldn’t be that hard to find him again. Thunder sounded directly above John, opening the heavens upon him.  
  
A wicked snarl curled John’s lips. The growl began deep in his chest slowly working its way up his throat until it burst out of his mouth, only to be almost drowned out by another roll of thunder. John huffed at Mother Nature, the spices nearly ripped from the air. He stalked the rest of the way home in a very bad mood, nearly breaking down the door of his hovel.  
  
He shook the rain from his body, leaving pink droplets scattered on the wooden floor of his flat. At least his shower wouldn’t need to be as vigorous. Once showered and freshly dressed, John pulled raw steak and lager from the fridge before sulking onto his mattress. He ate in silence, wondering what the man of Indian spice could possibly look like and what a man who smelled like him was doing living in London.


	2. A Sight to Match

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The characters of Sherlock Holmes and Dr. John Watson created by Sir Author Conan Doyle.  
> The setting of Sherlock (BBC) created by Steven Moffat and Mark Gatiss.  
> I do not own these characters, I’m just borrowing them for this idea.

Humidity always made smelling the city a difficult task, with the heat waves rolling off the pavement, mingling the scents of every human that passed through them into something completely unappetizing. John wasn’t going to let a little something like humidity stop him from finding his prize. Though he was beginning to become increasingly frustrated. Four days had gone by since he first caught the scent of Indian spice and ginger and he had yet to smell it again.  
  
He closed his eyes, titling his head back, and took a deep, nasally breath. The weather tried valiantly to hide the minute differences in scents, but his heightened sense could still find them. He could smell the coming storm; which he scoffed at. He could smell which city walkers were tourists from across the pond and which were simply from out of town. John took a second, frustrated sniff, gasping when his nose found the man he was looking for.  
  
He released his breath, coming out as a low, throaty growl. He sniffed the London air once more, the scent of spices radiating on the heat waves. His hazel eyes snapped open as the smell grew closer. The man this scent came from was much taller than those around him. A short bob of dark curls bouncing slightly as he walked. His eyes were an impossible icy blue, sharp and clear, always looking around him. His face was long, his cheekbones making a strong, almost ethereal statement. Something about his lips made him look as if he was wearing a perpetual smile. He moved with a grace and style that only someone with his extra long limbs could have.  
  
John followed this languid man with his eyes until his feet began to follow him on their own. All sensible thought left his mind as natural instinct took over. John easily weaved in and out of the crowds of humans, never loosing sight of the spice scented man ahead of him. As he turned onto Baker Street, John dodged through traffic to the opposite side of the street. The man paused, turning slightly at the short blaze of a car horn, but didn’t see what had caused the minor chaos.  
  
Peeking around the stoop which he’d crouched behind, John saw the man had continued on his way and jogged to catch up to his prey. He slowed to a walk when the other stopped at a door, using the old brass knocker. Rain began to pelt John as he stopped in his tracks, leering at the man across the road. He never felt the low growl leave his mouth. The door opened, an older woman; smelling of wisteria and flour, extending her arms to give this man John stalked a gracious hug.  
  
“Sherlock.” John heard over the gently falling rain. A sly smile crept over his lips as this Sherlock stepped over the threshold. John raised his head, spying the brass number on the door.  
  
“Two two one b, Baker Street,” he breathed, casting his gaze to the road side windows on the first floor. John could see the lithe figure picking up a violin and tucking it under his chin. “And Sherlock can’t be that common a name,” he mused.  
  
John shoved his hands in his coat pockets before making his way across the street. One cab nearly clipped his ankles, but missed hitting him by only a few inches, another had to slam on its breaks to avoid taking his legs out, giving the horn a generous pounding. The driver was leaning out his window to shout when John’s glare cut him off. Dark eyes never leaving the cabbie, who stared wide eyed as John slowly walked out from in front of his vehicle. A smirk played on his face as John made his usual jump scare move, which scared the cabbie so badly that he laid rubber trying to pull away.  
  
John huffed at the boot of the cab, continuing to the door, attempting to ignore the man peeking at him from the window. He turned right and began walking away, to avoid as much suspicion as he could. When he reached the other end of Baker Street, John turned around and began running back the way he’d come. He slowed to a brisk walk around two hundred thirty, slipping his right hand from his pocket and wetting it generously with his tongue. John passed under the over hang of Speedy’s and grabbed the door knocker, running his wet hand along the brass. He ignored the inquisitive looks of passers by, releasing it after several moments of fondling. He ran his hand in a large x over the wood beneath the knocker before continuing his trek down Baker Street.  
  
John sniffed at the wet air, smelling the ginger spices of Sherlock and the earthy apricot of his own scent upon the door. A smirk graced his lips as the clouds unloaded their payload down on London. Another growl escaped John’s throat as he sniffed again, a new female scent piquing his interest. He was so very hungry and the call was too intoxicating to ignore. He looked down Baker Street out of the corner of his eyes.  
  
“I’ll be back soon, Sherlock,” he murmured before trotting after the new smell.


	3. Attention Seeking

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The characters of Sherlock Holmes and Dr. John Watson created by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.  
> The setting of Sherlock (BBC) created by Steve Moffat and Mark Gatiss.  
> I do not own these characters, I’m just borrowing them for this idea.

_You’re needed. - L  
  
Sherlock? - L  
  
Answer your damn phone will you? - L_  
  
Ring, ring, ring, silence.  
  
 _Sherlock!? Pick up your phone dammit. - L_  
  
Knock, knock, knock.  
  
 _Sherlock, answer your door. - L_  
  
Pound, rattle, knock, knock.  
  
 _Answer your door! - L  
  
It is four A.M. Lestrade, what do you want? - SH  
  
Answer. Your. Door. - L_  
  
Begrudgingly, Sherlock Holmes stood from his bed, snagging the top sheet before making his way to the sitting room. Curtains flowed into the room by the cool breeze meeting Sherlock’s stomach as he passed his chair. He shuffled over papers, tying the sheet around his waist. Lestrade pushed in as the latch locking the door slid free, knocking Sherlock in the shoulder.  
  
“You’ve never ignored a text before. Especially one calling for you skills,” Lestrade half shouted, rounding on the consultant. Sherlock’s brows furrowed as he rubbed the pain from his already aching shoulder. “Are you all right?” the inspector asked after considering his friends long face. Sherlock’s cheeks were flushed and; if it was at all possible, he seemed thinner than usual.  
  
“I don’t feel quite myself,” Sherlock admitted, dropping into his chair with a grunt.  
  
“Are you ill?”  
  
“Quite possibly, now what do you want, Lestrade?” He steepled his fingers together under his chin, regarding the inspector with tired eyes. Lestrade shook his head, bringing himself back to the reason he came.  
  
“We’ve come across more of those killings--”  
  
“Clearly some wild man who uses his dog to kill people, is that all?” Sherlock interrupted, turning from Lestrade to gaze into the fireplace.  
  
“Animals don’t cut a y incision into the chest and leave messages like ‘The Science of Deduction’ in the victims blood,” Lestrade stated matter-of-factly. Sherlock’s head snapped back to the inspector.  
  
“...say that again?” The shock in his voice makes both men flinch.  
  
“Just get dressed and come. It’s a ten minute drive to Koko’s this time of night. I’ll wait.”  
  
Sherlock stood from his chair, immediately making a bee-line for his room. He slammed the door behind and discarded the sheet about his waist. Sherlock quickly dressed into a fresh suit, closing his eyes as a fit of shivers wracked his frame. He slumped his forehead against the doorframe, one arm wrapped tightly around his middle, the other yanking his wool coat from the hook.  
  
Wrapping the warm coat around his shoulders, Sherlock shook himself into regaining his composure. A shuddering breath escaped his lips as he wiped sweat from his face. He took a few steadying breathes before marching out to Lestrade, who eyed his coat curiously.  
  
“It’s hot and humid out there, what the hell do you need the wool for?”  
  
“I’m in my fifth day of walking pneumonia, I’m cold, and it’s rather uncomfortable to be this kind of sick this time of year. Now, do you want to catch a madman or not?” Sherlock was already trotting down the stairs when Lestrade closed the door to the flat.  
  
“A madman who wants your attention!” Lestrade shouted, jogging down the slim stairs.  
  
“Clearly,” Sherlock yawned.  
  
The two piled into the police car, peeling away from the curb. The ten minute ride was silent, apart from the sirens and Sherlock’s occasional audible shiver. Purple white lights highlighted the antique building as they pulled into the lot crowded with officers. Both men exited the car, making several officers turn to them. Sherlock could see the mop of Sergeant Donovan’s hair hang disapprovingly as they stepped toward her.  
  
“I do not want to hear it, Donovan, you got that?” Lestrade threatened, pulling the blue and white police tape up for he and Sherlock to pass under. Donovan opened and closed her mouth like a fish for a few moments before turning away from the pair in heat.  
  
“Anderson as well?” Sherlock mused, casting his eyes to the bright sign that announced KOKO to the world. Lestrade huffed an affirmative. They walked in silence through the side door of the club. The forensics table was already set up. Lestrade removed his jacket, unfolding the blue jump suit for himself.  
  
“I don’t want any more contamination than there already is, so put one on yourself,” Anderson ordered from behind Sherlock, who turned, glaring at the forensic tech with his piercing eyes.  
  
“I’m really in no mood for you shit, Anderson.” Sherlock leaned towards the little man in a half threatening fashion.  
  
“You’re wearing a mask at least,” Lestrade stated, making Sherlock turned suddenly.  
  
“What?”  
  
“You’re sick. You are wearing a mask in there.” Lestrade held out the surgical mask in his gloved hand.  
  
Sherlock sighed, taking the mask from the inspector. “Fine.” He placed the mask over his face, tucking the elastic behind his ears. He pulled a pair of latex gloves from their box and slid them on before asking, “What was going on tonight?” as they entered the dance floor.  
  
“A rave of sorts. The were playing bass heavy music, something called dubstep, I think. The lights were strobing and lasers were bouncing off every reflective surface they could find. And they had half a dozen fog machines going the entire night, so no one saw anything, no one heard anything,” Lestrade explained as the stopped at the corpse lying on the ground.  
  
“No one saw someone dripping with blood?” Sherlock inquired, completely bemused, crouching beside the body.  
  
“You ever been to a rave, Sherlock?”  
  
“Have you?”  
  
“No but I’ve busted up several illegal ones. You see that kiddie pool there? It’s full of paint and the smaller one is filled with the insides of glow sticks, people are allowed to come up to those anytime they bloody well please and just smear it all over themselves.” Sherlock glanced at the plastic pools.  
  
“And tonight’s color just happened to be red?” he questioned.  
  
“Yeah,” Lestrade sighed. “So what do you make of it?”  
  
“The heart’s missing--again.”  
  
“The heart’s missing from all of them.” Lestrade turned to the rest of the dance floor, but Sherlock ignored the motion.  
  
“Whoever this is they--they use their bare hands for this. They must be incredibly strong to be able to break the ribs like that and then tear the heart out. You still haven’t found any of them have you?” Sherlock suddenly questioned.  
  
“No, none. Maybe he takes them home,” Lestrade mused.  
  
“But where are the throats, does he take them home too?”  
  
“You said a madman and his dog,” Lestrade combats indignantly.  
  
“There are no dogs allowed, Lestrade.” Sherlock’s voice comes out in deadpan tone, making Lestrade roll his eyes in contempt.  
  
“This is by the side door, maybe he....” Sherlock released a scoffing giggle, making Lestrade irritable. “So what’s your theory then, cannibal?”  
  
“I.... I don’t exactly have a theory yet, not enough data,” Sherlock admitted, his voice small and faraway.  
  
“I’m sorry what? No. Theory. Yet? How many more citizens have to be brutally murdered, Sherlock, before you have enough data for a theory?” Lestrade’s voice cracked in anger.  
  
“No better time to start then is there? This is after all the first one you’ve called me in on. Now, the incision in her flesh is tapered, possibly a serrated blade. Though if he had a blade why didn’t he just use it on her throat as well? Which means he might not have had a weapon at all.”  
  
“Then how did he make the cuts in her chest?”  
  
Silence stretched between the pair while they each tried to come up with a method. Sherlock’s eyes darted over each wound, an impossible thought running through his head. “I don’t know,” he whispered when Lestrade shifted to look at the body better. “But, the bite--” Sherlock surveyed it closely. Jagged teeth marks pocked the surrounding flesh, too long for any man or dog. “The bite mark is too large and too deep for any average man to have made it.” There were no other marks on the body, but her nails were torn.  
  
“Have Anderson clean under her nails, looks like she may have scratched him, and swab around the neck wound for saliva.” He peered at the ground around the body, the blood pool was smeared from people fighting to evacuate the horror. After several minutes of quiet observation, Lestrade spoke.  
  
“What about the message?” He saw Sherlock snap his eyes to the word scrawled on the wall, noticing it for the first time.  
  
“He’s never left a note before has he?” He saw Lestrade shake his head from his peripheral. “Ah, then it gives us the greatest glimpse into his character.”  
  
“We already know he’s a madman.”  
  
Sherlock ignored the statement. “Look at it. It’s almost illegible, the letters blur together like chicken scratch, so he may have been trained as a doctor; which would explain the y incision. He has extremely long nails, look. There are several scratches in the center of all the letters.” He paused to look for the rest of the message. “This just says deduction. You said he left ‘The Science of Deduction’, where’s the rest of it?” Sherlock waved his long hands at the blood scrawled word.  
  
Lestrade turned somber. “There are three other bodies in here.” Sherlock stood, finally surveying the rest of the hall. One man lay dead in the center of the dance floor, while another was slumped over a table in the far corner, and a second woman was slumped over the barricade barring the audience from the stage. If Sherlock hadn’t been wearing the mask, he would have kept his composure better.  
  
“Brazen, it’s he?” Lestrade questioned, casting his eyes from one body to the next.  
  
“And certainly desperate for my attention.”


	4. Panic Stricken

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The characters of Sherlock Holmes and Dr. John Watson created by Sir Author Conan Doyle.  
> The setting of Sherlock (BBC) created by Steven Moffat and Mark Gatiss.  
> I do not own these characters, I’m just borrowing them for this idea.

Fever spiking, eyes tired, muscles aching, Sherlock shrugged off his coat and let it crumple to the floor. He shifted away from the microscope,  head in his hands just wishing this damn pneumonia would go away. In a fit of heat, he tore at his jacket, popping the buttons free. He tossed it to the ground, breathing deeply while wiping the excess sweat from his forehead.  
  
“You look tired,” a small voice observed from the door. Sherlock’s bright eyes snapped to Molly Hooper staring at him. “Can’t sleep?” He shook his head, casting his eyes to the computer, which was still trying to identify who had left their saliva at the scene.  
  
“Are you ill?” Molly pressed. Sherlock sighed in affirmative. “Maybe you should take a break. I’ll make sure no one takes the bodies before you’ve had a proper look at them.”  
  
“My longest bought of walking pneumonia and it comes at the height of a wonderfully demented serial killer. And the weather isn’t helping.” Sherlock rolled his head on his shoulders, stretching his neck long in an attempt to release the built up tension in his muscles. He closed his eyes, placing his hands at the nape of his neck and massaging little circles into the flesh.  
  
“It’s too hot for you to get any sleep.” It was meant as a statement, but Molly’s inflection made it a question.  
  
“Yes.”  
  
“I think I have a solution.” Sherlock cocked an eyebrow and eyed Molly with curiosity. “Come on, follow me.” She waved a hand at him and made to exit the lab. “Oh bring your coat, you’re going to need a pillow,” she added with a smile. Sherlock sighed, bending to grab his things when a sudden wave of dizziness pressed upon him. He quickly grabbed the counter to steady himself, the world tilting severely to the left around him.  
  
“Are you all right?” Molly trotted back, laying a hand on his shoulder.  
  
“Haven’t the foggiest. So what’s this idea of yours?”  
  
\- - - - -  
  
“You’ve got to be joking?”  
  
“It could work.”  
  
“I thought the point was to feed the fever, make it peek quicker.”  
  
“That does no good if you can’t sleep. I figured the chill might help.”  
  
“It’s a body chute, Molly.” Sherlock stared at the small open door at his knees, sliding his arms back into his jacket.  
  
“Wouldn’t have thought that’d bother you,” she said, folding his wool coat into a tight ball. “It’s just a suggestion, anyhow. You don’t have to nap in there. I just figured that a cold, uninterrupted nap would be a good way to recharge your batteries. A man in your profession shouldn’t look as drained as you do...you shouldn’t look as drained as you do,” Molly added in a quiet voice.  
  
“It would be nice to get at least some sleep,” Sherlock admitted, already sliding onto the uncomfortable metal gurney. He adjusted himself; ensuring his long body would fit, and was surprised when he laid his head back that it rested on his coat.  
  
“Thank you, Molly.” Sherlock looked at her through half closed eyes, his mind and body already willing to fall asleep.  
  
“I’ll wake you in about twenty minutes.” She smiled, brushing a few sweat drenched curls from his forehead. “Sleep well, Sherlock.” Molly pushed the gurney into the dark and closed the door, shutting him in complete darkness. Sherlock closed his eyes, shifted slightly and heaved a heavy sigh. Silence pressed around him, making his already aching limbs ache more.  
  
THUMP  
  
Sherlock’s eyes snapped open at the sound to his right. He turned to look but his eyes met the cold metal side of the body chute. His limbs felt heavy as he lifted his hand and pressed against the siding, which sagged under his light touch. He pulled his hand away with a jerk, leaving a print that could in no way be his. The fingers were too long and about an inch from the tip of each digit a deep point pressed into the metal.  
  
His head rolled around as more thumps began to sound around his metal coffin, the walls creaking in and out around him as if he were a heart in someone’s chest. Sherlock pressed his hands into his temples, trying hard to breath as a sudden claustrophobia closed around him. He couldn’t breath, he couldn’t think, he only wanted out. Sherlock rolled over, frantically searching for the door. His fingers landed on the latch and fumbled trying to push it open.  
  
The door refused to yield until Sherlock crouched in the increasingly small space and thrust his shoulder into the little metal surface. Tumbling out, Sherlock smacked the door closed as he scrambled away. His breath finally came back to him as he sat, shaking, just staring at the body chute he’d exited. After several moments, Sherlock shook the fear from his mind.  
  
“Just a dream,” he whispered in an exacerbated tone, a nervous giggle exiting his mouth as he stood. He turned to look for Molly only to find the morgue had vanished and been replaced with the inside of Koko’s. Sherlock spun wildly, the line of body chutes fading into the wall, revealing the door he used to first enter the club. He reached out to the handle and tried turning it, but it stubbornly refused to yield.  
  
Sherlock cast his eyes around him, then looked down, noticing that his white shirt was blazing bright in the black lights. Every person around him was a faceless blur, completely clad in black, which made each characters pale skin pop in the lights. He winced as something bounced off the top of his head. Sherlock reached to massage the spot, expecting to find something there, but when he looked up, he saw what it had been. Bubbles floated down from the pitch ceiling. His brows knitted together, wondering why something like a bubble would cause pain.  
  
Sherlock caught a sphere but it didn’t burst in his fingers. It shown bright as a laser bounced around inside the crystalline bobble. He smirked at the jewel, letting it slip from his fingers to the ground, where it shattered into the fog; the laser escaping to find another bubble to inhabit. Suddenly the crowd shrank in height, causing Sherlock to jump. The spotlight drew his attention to the center of the dance floor, a man clad in a crimson suit. He was rotating slowly around, as if standing on a lazy susan.  
  
 _Lestrade,_ Sherlock said, but no voice came from his mouth. Worried, he brought a hand to his throat and tried again. _Lestrade._ Again his voice didn’t speak, but it did spell out. In his peripheral he saw the name poof into nothing. _What the fuck?_ Sherlock felt his lips move and watched the words spell out like subtitles next to his head. After a while the words puffed into nothing, leaving smoky shadows of themselves hanging in the air.  
  
Trying to ignore the strangeness of things happening to him, Sherlock began moving through the suddenly short crowd to the inspector. He’d stopped turning, facing away from Sherlock, who smiled at the familiar figure before him. He placed his left hand on Lestrade’s shoulder only to yank it away instantly. Thick red tendrils clung to his shaking fingers, fresh blood oozing from Sherlock’s imprint. Sherlock swallowed hard and tried to steady himself, gripping his shaking wrist with his free hand. He couldn’t tear his eyes from the suit, which seemed to be a sponge of blood, occasionally dripping to the floor.  
  
Forgetting his voice didn’t sound out, Sherlock asked, _Lestrade?_ The man made no notice of him. _Inspector._ He reached out his already bloody hand to turn the man to him, backpedaling as Lestrade’s innards spilled to the floor. Sherlock was trying very hard to breath as his eyes danced up the inspector’s scarred front to his face which wasn’t exactly there. Lestrade’s mouth was filled with long fangs and twisted in a scream--taking up his entire face.  
  
Sherlock backed into an invisible wall at the edge of the spotlight as Lestrade’s mouth grew more grotesque, threatening to split his head in two. Sherlock brought the back of his bloodied hand to his lips in an attempt to keep himself from screaming out. Lestrade threw his head back releasing a mighty howl before popping like a water balloon, spraying thick threads of crimson in every direction. Sherlock turned into the wall, feeling the splatter cover his back.  
  
When the blood rain stopped, he shakily looked back. Lestrade was no more than a massive puddle on the marble floor. Sherlock felt nauseous at the sight. He was breathing hard, trying to keep his insides inside.  
  
 _Ah!_ he cried, feeling pain around his neck. Sherlock’s eyes widened as he felt something warm slipping over his flesh. He pressed his right hand into his neck, trying to stem the flow. Pulling his hand away, Sherlock gazed at his own blood, rich and cooling on his digits. His head flew back, eyes and mouth wide in shock.  
  
Pain.  
  
Pain was all Sherlock could feel, stemming from his back and out his front. It took tremendous effort, but he brought his head forward to see what caused his pain. A sandy colored, fur coated, too large hand with inch long claws was holding Sherlock’s heart outside his body. His mouth guppied as he coughed blood. His brain was still working enough to recognize that this was the hand that made the impression in the metal of the body chute.  
  
SQUELCH  
  
The clawed hand closed in a fist around Sherlock’s heart. His body went limp around the arm through him. The other firm hand shoved Sherlock free; his body falling hard to its knees first, then falling to its face in Lestrade’s intestines.  
  
CLUNK  
  
“Ah!” Sherlock rubbed the sore spot where his forehead met the top of the body chute. He shook his head, trying to rid his mind of the fever dream, but there were certain aspects he couldn’t forget. He found the place on his right where the handprint had scared the metal. He closed his eyes, doing his best to ignore the shivers cascading his frame. He opened his eyes, on the verge of hyperventilating, the claustrophobia setting on Sherlock again. He turned over, immediately trying to force the little square door open.  
  
“Molly!” he shouted, punching the door and bloodying three of his knuckles. “MOLLY!” he growled, giving it another punch. Sherlock gulped, attempting to calm his heart. He rested his forehead on his coat, jerking up at the sound of feet on the other side of the door. The metal clicked and Sherlock forced his way out as quickly as he could, landing on all fours and relishing in the fresh air. Shivers still shook his figure as Sherlock tried to calm himself. His stomach heaved, nothing but bile coming up.  
  
“Bad dream was it?” Molly inquired, her voice small and frightened. Sherlock turned his head dangerously slow, fixing her with a What-Do-You-Think? look.


	5. First Impressions

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The characters of Sherlock Holmes and Dr. John Watson created by Sir Author Conan Doyle.  
> The setting of Sherlock (BBC) created by Steven Moffat and Mark Gatiss.  
> I do not own these characters, I’m just borrowing them for this idea.

_No match in DNA. Contaminated sample. - SH  
  
Wonderful. What else do you have? - L_  
  
Sherlock’s fingers froze over the keys as he contemplated his next text. The dream was still incredibly vivid in his mind and no matter what he tried to think of, the dream would find its way back into focus.  
  
 _Cuts were made by hand. - SH  
  
Of course they were, you said he used a knife. - L  
  
There was no weapon, Lestrade. - SH_  
  
“Could I have your hand please?” Molly asked quietly. Sherlock stared at his bloody knuckles. It was a panic unlike anything he’d ever felt. His hands still shook slightly. Molly’s touch brought Sherlock back to reality.  
  
“What for?”  
  
“You’re already ill, last thing you need is some sort of infection on top of it. We do keep dead bodies in those things,” she pointed out. Sherlock huffed through his nose, thrusting his hand to the mortician. He winced as Molly wiped the blood away with an alcohol infused cloth. She was constantly looking from his hand to his face, trying to decide whether or not to say something.  
  
“Clearly you have something you’re itching to say.” He cast his eyes back to the computer, which had just announced no matches on fingerprints.  
  
 _What do you mean, made by hand? - L_  
  
“I’ve never--” she began, but Sherlock interrupted her.  
  
“I don’t want to talk about it.” His voice was stern and his jaw set.  
  
“Okay,” she resigned in her usual defeated voice.  
  
 _No matches on fingerprints either. - SH  
  
What do you mean, made by hand!? - L  
  
What do you think I mean? - SH  
  
You can’t possibly think that some crazy bastard cut open each chest with his nails? - L  
  
Once you’ve ruled out the impossible whatever remains, however improbable, must be true. - SH_  
  
“Despite your...um...dream, you seem a little better,” Molly pointed out, securing the gauze around Sherlock’s knuckles.  
  
“I think my fever may have finally broken, but I don’t have the attention for looking at bodies just now. I’ll be back tomorrow morning.” Sherlock grabbed his coat and left without thanking Molly.  
  
\- - - - -  
  
Gooseflesh popped over John’s tanned skin, the refreshingly cool summer breeze breathing over him as he rested on the ledge of St. Bart’s roof. The high concentration of Sherlock Holmes’s scent was overwhelming. He sniffed the air, the freshness of the spices bringing a smile to John’s face. He was here.  
  
Sherlock slipped his arms into his coat, rubbing a hand over his heart. He could still feel the pain of the hand holding his heart. He hailed a taxi, which stopped short. The driver jumped out, pointing to the roof. Sherlock followed the cabbie’s gaze and fixed his eyes to the man on the ledge. About a third of his body was hanging over the street, his right leg bent dangerously over the edge. Sherlock’s brows knit together, he could plainly see that the man had no intention of killing himself; he was using his hands as pillows. The man tipped precariously as he adjusted his arms for better comfort.  
  
Sherlock jogged for the door he’d just exited and made his way up the stairs to the roof. John could hear his hurrying feet, the T-TAP of his heels a wonderful sound in the mix of London’s bustle. He barely started when Sherlock burst through the roof door. He clasped his hands on his chest and spied his prize through the corners of his eyes, a half smile curling his lips. Sherlock was panting, his wool coat billowing open in the light breeze.  
  
The smile completely overtook John’s lips as he closed his eyes, his foot tapping to Sherlock’s beating heart. As his breath became steady, Sherlock observed the man before him. Extremely fit, brown as a nut, a massive scar on his left shoulder. His demeanor was calm and peaceful, his breath easing in and out. The man’s hands were well worn and his hair was a sandy, sun-bleached blonde with a few patches of grey. Sherlock took a deep breath before speaking.  
  
“What are you doing?” he asked, feigning worry.  
  
“Sunbathing,” John dryly replied.  
  
“Couldn’t you--couldn’t you do that in the center of the roof?”  
  
John turned his head to; for the first time, look Sherlock in the face. “Could you possibly drop the mock worry? It just sounds so very patronizing coming from your mouth, a real turn off,” he mumbled.  
  
“Who are you?” Sherlock inquired, the timber of his voice returning to normal.  
  
“Just another citizen of London, Mr. Sherlock Holmes.” John sat up, catching the momentary shock in his preys eyes. He eyed the bandage around Sherlock’s knuckles.  
  
“I’m afraid you have me at a disadvantage,” he said. John sniffed the air, the unpleasant note of fear lingering around its host. Sherlock followed the man’s gaze to where they rested and clasped his hands behind his back.  
  
“Had yourself a little fright did you?” John’s hazel eyes floated up to meet Sherlock’s pale ice blue spheres.  
  
“What makes you say that?” Sherlock fought to keep his voice level, the sandy color of the man’s hair far too close in shade to his dream for comfort. John shook his head, an uncomfortable smirk on his lips. He stood on the ledge with a powerful grace Sherlock wouldn’t have expected him to have. “What is your name? And how do you know mine?” he questioned again, straightening his posture as the man stepped down. Sherlock noted he couldn’t be more than five eight, though his boots added at least an inch to his height.  
  
John sauntered over pulling his discarded ribbed tank over his head, an old set of dogtags clanking around his neck. Sherlock watched his walking, powerful and trying to make himself look taller than he really was; like someone used to fighting people twice his size. He eyed John as he walk around him, his eyes scrutinizing him, a movement that sent a shiver up Sherlock’s spine. He was wholly used to giving the same look to others, he’d never received it himself; unless it was from Mycroft.  
  
The scar was far worse to look at up close. It wrapped around his entire shoulder, a large bite mark, far different from any mark by man or beast. It had several deep puncture marks which blazed against his tan skin with a rosy hue.  
  
“Looks like you’re over the worst of it. Should be back to good health in a few days,” the man muttered, finally coming back in front of Sherlock.  
  
“You’re a military doctor,” he whispered, making John smile.  
  
“Fantastic! And you, sir, are as good as you claim on your website.”  
  
“That’s how you know my name.”  
  
“Yes.”  
  
“And yours is?” Sherlock cast his eyes to the hidden dogtags a moment, but he couldn’t read the name through the linen.  
  
“Doctor John Hamish Watson, Captain of the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers.” He saluted Sherlock, who did not return the gesture.  
  
“You mean the Royal Regiment of Fusiliers?” He cocked an eyebrow in curiosity, why would someone refer to the Fusiliers by its archaic term? John thought about it a moment.  
  
“I do, in fact. Sometimes things just sound better exiting ones mouth by their first names. Like you, Sherlock. Certainly not a modern name, but quite fitting. An old world look in the modern era,” he said with a smile. John walked back to the ledge, snagging his coat from the rooftop.  
  
“Why are you here?” Sherlock asked, more to himself than John.  
  
“Oh, you,” he said, slipping his arms into the black fabric of his almost bomber jacket. He turned slightly, catching the questioning look in Sherlock’s eyes. “I wanted to meet you. Is that so odd?”  
  
“No. It’s the way you’ve gone about it that’s disturbing,” he stated matter-of-factly. Sherlock widen his stance slightly, readying himself for anything.  
  
“And how have I gone about it?”  
  
“Before the four you killed last night, there were ten other victims in the past two weeks.” There was a smile in John’s eyes that didn’t reach his mouth.  
  
“You think I’m doing those animalistic killings, do you?” His voice was level, too level for someone just accused of fourteen murders.  
  
“What better way to get the attention of the world’s only consulting detective?”  
  
John smirked, “Committing murder would be the way to go.” He sat back on the ledge with a smile that instantly vanished at the wail of police sirens. “Well, that’s the perfect way to ruin our first meeting.” He stood, adjusting the coat on his shoulders. “Tah, Sherlock. I’m sure we’ll meet again.” John saluted once again, breaking in a run for the curve of the roof. Sherlock launched after him, almost keeping pace with him. John hopped onto the ledge without loosing a beat and began running harder. Sherlock cast his eyes between John and the closing in of the roof. He skid to a stop, staring at the other as he jumped to the next building.  
  
The two story freefall lit a fire in John’s heart and for a moment his eyes changed. He landed in a roll before looking back up to St. Bart’s from his crouch. There was awe on Sherlock’s face. John nodded with a grin before running off, jumping over ledges and gripping shingles with ease. Sherlock watched his movements until he couldn’t see John Watson any longer.  
  
“Free runner,” Sherlock whispered so low he couldn’t hear his own voice. His face brightened in a moment of realization. “Military!” He ran back along the roof and quickly made for the lab.


	6. Most Unwanted Attention

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The characters of Sherlock Holmes and Dr. John Watson created by Sir Author Conan Doyle.  
> The setting of Sherlock (BBC) created by Steven Moffat and Mark Gatiss.  
> I do not own these characters, I’m just borrowing them for this idea.

“I’m busy, Lestrade, go away,” Sherlock stated when the inspector entered the lab. He was seated at the computer, riffling through Doctor John Watson’s military records and trying to match his DNA and fingerprints.  
  
“What’s this I hear about you talking a jumper down from the roof?” Lestrade asked, ignoring Sherlock.  
  
“He had no intention of jumping. He was,” Sherlock paused, going over the situation in his head once more. “He was relaxed.”  
  
“Then why was he doing it on the ledge of a seven story building?”  
  
“Thrill, I think. He’s a free runner, so he has no real fear of falling. And he’s military, so he’s not afraid of death.” He explained, casting his eyes to the detective. His brows knitted momentarily at the look on Lestrade’s face, it was clouded with worry.  
  
“So what was he here for then?”  
  
“Sunbathing, he said. But that’s only about half the truth,” Sherlock said, returning his full attention to the computer screen.  
  
“The rest of the truth?” Lestrade sat across the work table, staring him down. After several minutes of listening to the computer ping back no matches, he spoke. “Sherlock, why else was he here?”  
  
“To see me,” he resigned, finally looking the inspector in the eye.  
  
“You don’t think he’s our man, do you?”  
  
“It’s a distinct possibility. Doctor John H. Watson, Captain of the Royal Regiment of Fusiliers. On the outside he seems completely normal, but who knows what he’s really thinking. Difficult to tell.”  
  
“You know what I think sometimes, even tell me to shut up about it,” Lestrade muttered, leaning back in his chair.  
  
“I’ve known you for years, Inspector, it’s easier to read you. This man...he’s different than the rest of the commonwealth. Enigmatic, shadowed. Practiced at hiding himself.” Sherlock stared at the photo of the doctor a moment.  
  
“If he’s a captain in her majesty’s royal army, why isn’t he back in Afghanistan right now?” Lestrade stood behind Sherlock, looking the photo over himself.  
  
“His last tour ended at Christmas and he just hasn’t signed up for another one yet. It’s rare, but some soldiers do take a short leave between tours. Damn,” he mutter as the computer finished its scan. “Only partial matches in both DNA and prints. Could be his, could be anyone’s!”  
  
“What’s that?” Lestrade pointed to the contamination from the saliva.  
  
“Canine, apparently. Great dane’s have jaws big enough to cause that kind of bite. Maybe he had found a way to get a dog into the club and just nobody noticed,” Sherlock mused, throwing his hands up at the negative result.  
  
“Raves can get pretty crazy and the people at them do some pretty stupid things. The music’s so loud you can’t hear the person next to you screamin’ in your ear. And most of these people are on some sort of drug or another, LSD, PCP, E or literally anything else. It’s fairly easy for weird shit to get into a rave,” Lestrade explained, plopping into the chair next to Sherlock. He cast the inspector a questioning sideways glance.  
  
“Thought you said you hadn’t been to one?”  
  
“What does it matter?”  
  
“Nothing, it’s just you seem to know a lot about something you’ve never been to.”  
  
“Kind of like you and the wealth of knowledge you have on just about everything?” Lestrade asked, trying to hide the giggle from his voice.  
  
“Quite right,” Sherlock admitted in a giggle. Silence fell between them as he placed his eyes to the microscope again. Lestrade shifted in his seat, a motion that didn’t go unnoticed. Sherlock watched the inspector run his fingers over his mouth, a symptom he employed whenever he considered asking something.  
  
“What, Lestrade?” He made no effort to hide the exasperation from his voice.  
  
“How are you feeling?” Lestrade’s voice was quiet but concerned. This was a subject Sherlock desperately wished to avoid.  
  
“Fine. If this John Watson had any intention of harming me, he had ample opportunity and missed.”  
  
“That’s not what I’m talking about, Sherlock.” Lestrade shook his head.  
  
“I know what you want to talk about, but I’m not willing, so you’d do better just to drop the entire subject.” Sherlock looked to the other, his face was set, his eyes saying he’d get up and leave if the subject was pushed any further.  
  
“Well I want to.” The inspector’s voice was defiant, a quality Sherlock found he employed very little of. He plucked his wool coat from the table and made to get up. Lestrade stood, shoving a firm hand in Sherlock’s shoulder.  
  
“I like to consider us friends,” he began, unable to look Sherlock in the eyes. “And I’m concerned for you. There is a madman out there who wants your attention, he’s already made that quite clear. You’re having a long bout of walking pneumonia with fever dreams to top it all off.” Sherlock took advantage of Lestrade’s pause.  
  
“Molly told you, did she?”  
  
“She’s concerned for you as well.”  
  
“Your concern is noted,” Sherlock scoffed, slipping his coat over his shoulders. He started when his eyes fell back upon Lestrade. For a long moment he was replaced with the gut spilling version from his dream.  
  
“You all right?” Sherlock averted his eyes, taking his bottom lip between his teeth. Lestrade had known him for about five years now and had never seen him this way. Sherlock’s jaw quivered slightly as he turned his whole body to block Lestrade from view.  
  
“...Sherlock?”  
  
He shook his head to push the image from his mind and began breathing again. “I’m fine, Lestrade,” he lied. Sherlock hated the shake he heard in his voice.  
  
“No you’re not.” Sherlock huffed at the statement. “I can hear it. I’ve never seen you like this. Are you going to be okay?” Lestrade inquired, his own voice was flustered as he spoke. Sherlock glanced at him a moment before turning back to him.  
  
“I will be fine,” Sherlock began. He averted his eyes once more, almost unable to look the inspector in the face. When he spoke, his voice was quiet verging on ashamed. “Thank you, Lestrade.” Shock was visible on the detectives face.  
  
“You really are sick,” he chuckled. Both turned at the sound of the lab door.  
  
“Am I interrupting something?” The man looked between both men a moment before resting his eyes on Sherlock.  
  
“Not at all, Mike,” Sherlock said, defiantly ending his conversation with Lestrade.  
  
“I’ve spoken with Molly and the families, they’ve allowed us to keep the bodies for a few more days. They’re just as determined as the rest of us to figure out who this madman is.”  
  
“Good.”  
  
“You gonna look at them with a fresh face tomorrow?” Mike probed. Sherlock’s eyes floated up to Stamford’s wide face, his brow furrowed.  
  
“Molly’s told you as well?” Annoyance was clear in his voice. His fierce eyes snapped to Molly when she entered the lab.  
  
“Oh, so, I--I guess Mike’s told you already?” Her voice was meek and mousy under the fierce gaze she was receiving. His mouth barely opened, but everyone heard Sherlock’s low yes. Molly smiled, but both Lestrade and Mike cast a sideways glance at him.  
  
“I better be getting back to work,” Mike said, trying to break the building tension.  
  
“Me too. If you need any help tomorrow, give me text, Sherlock.” Lestrade nodded as he left, casting his eyes to Molly for a short moment. Mike exited the lab in very much the same fashion, leaving Sherlock and Molly in the quiet room. Molly fiddled with her thumbs, avoiding Sherlock’s eye. He stood, scraping his chair hard against the floor. Heavy, calculated steps came towards her, she forced herself to keep looking away.  
  
“Ah!” Molly cried when Sherlock took her upper arm in his firm grip and shoved her back into the door.  
  
“Why did you tell them?” His voice was level, but his eyes were lit with anger.  
  
“They were concerned about you. I thought they should know how ill you were.”  
  
“For future reference, Molly, do me the favor of zipping your howling screamer.” Molly gasped, casting her eyes to his face. His jaw was set firm and his ice blue eyes pierced her soul. “You know I have no love for that sort of attention.”  
  
Her lip quivered at Sherlock’s tone. “Okay,” she murmured.  
  
“Good. Have a good day, Molly and I’ll see you tomorrow.” Sherlock released her arm and stormed from the lab, shoving his hands into his pockets as he went.


	7. With Family

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The characters of Sherlock Holmes and Dr. John Watson created by Sir Author Conan Doyle.  
> The setting of Sherlock (BBC) created by Steven Moffat and Mark Gatiss.  
> I do not own these characters, I’m just borrowing them for this idea.

Mrs. Hudson pulled the door to 221b open before Mycroft had been able to knock. The look on her face took him aback.  
  
“Is he that serious?” Mycroft inquired, trying to keep his tone level.  
  
“I don’t know,” she admitted, ushering him in. “He hasn’t been out in three days. Just stays shut up in his flat. The inspector has even been to see him, but Sherlock wouldn’t let him in. I don’t know what he’s doing up there.” Mrs. Hudson handed the spare key to Mycroft, wishing him luck. He gazed at the key a moment before walking up to the flat. He knocked with his umbrella first and heard no movement on the other side. Mycroft tried the handle next, stubbornly locked. He quickly unlocked it, but found he still couldn’t enter, something rather large and heavy was blocking the door.  
  
Mycroft sighed, turning to the kitchen door, which was unlocked and unbarred. He pushed it open, almost dreading what he might find inside. Nothing in the kitchen was shocking; except possibly the height of the dishes cluttering the sink, but the sitting room was an absolute mess. Loose papers and books littered the floor and almost every available surface.  
  
A number of grotesque photographs adorned the limited space above the mantle as well as the wall opposite. Mycroft’s eyes finally fell upon his younger brother, asleep at his desk, head in his hands, his computer still waiting for him to compose an e-mail.  
  
Mycroft waded through the papers to find it was the couch blocking the main door. He rolled his eyes, reached out with his umbrella and yanked Sherlock’s right arm. In the instant his head fell, Sherlock startled awake. He rubbed his eyes against the brightness of his computer screen before turning to see what woke him.  
  
Sherlock’s brow furrowed at his elder brother, as if he didn’t recognize him. When he did finally see Mycroft standing before him he asked, “What the hell are you doing here?”  
  
“You have a number of people who are worried for your well being. Both Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade rang me, so I thought it was high time to intervene.” Mycroft cast his eyes around the disorganized flat. “This is disgraceful by the way. Didn’t mother teach you better than this?”  
  
“Oh shut up, Mycroft.” Sherlock pressed the heel of his hands into his eyes, attempting to rub the sleep from them. His spine cracked as he leaned back over the chair. “That feels better,” he said in a satisfied tone.  
  
“Still ill?” Mycroft inquired, taking a closer look at some of the autopsy photos. “A bit obvious this?” He waved the tip of his umbrella over the pictures as Sherlock stood, his joints popping in protest.  
  
“No.”  
  
After a moment of silence, Mycroft turned and asked, “To which?”  
  
“Both.” He tussled his curls before casting his tired eyes to the already memorized photographs.  
  
“But clearly these neck wounds are from a dog.”  
  
“Easy to think that, but the radius is took big for any known domestic breed. There are similarities to a wolf though, but even then at its widest it’s too large for a wolf or even a half-wolf.” Sherlock fell into his chair, atop a number of papers. “And the DNA is contaminated, I can’t separate the human for the canine. It’s infuriating.” He kicked a pile of books into the fireplace in frustration.  
  
“A troublesome case indeed. What does he use to break the ribs open, a ball peen hammer?”  
  
Sherlock scoffed, making Mycroft turn. “Take a look at that one directly in front of you, tell me what you see.” Mycroft plucked the photo from its place and stared at it a moment. He squinted before seeing what his brother was trying to point out.  
  
“You’re not serious?”  
  
“Very. It’s one solid break, no hesitation. I think this bastard uses his fist to break these people open. Incredibly strong and knowledgeable of the human figure. Someone who knows how to take a body apart,” Sherlock tapered off, seeing John Watson in his minds eye.  
  
“You sound as if you’re describing a singular person.”  
  
“There’s no proof connecting him to these murders, but a man came to see me the other day. At Bart’s. If there’s anything you can dig up on a John Hamish Watson, I’d greatly appreciate it.” Mycroft jotted down the name before looking back up to the photographs.  
  
“Fourteen corpses, four which were directly trying to get your attention. You be careful little brother.” He pocketed his notebook, making his way for the kitchen door. “It’s good to know that you didn’t happen to expire in here.” Mycroft barely made use of his playful tone, Sherlock smirked at it.  
  
“Yes, thank you. Good-bye, Mycroft. Any information...,” he started.  
  
“I’ll make sure it gets to you.” Mycroft exited with a swift nod. Sherlock hung his head over the back of his chair in a sigh.  
  
“He certainly wants something from me.”


	8. Among Kin

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The characters of Sherlock Holmes and Dr. John Watson created by Sir Author Conan Doyle.  
> The setting of Sherlock (BBC) created by Steven Moffat and Mark Gatiss.  
> I do not own these characters, I’m just borrowing them for this idea.

Smoke swirled from John’s lips as he puffed at his cigarette. He was staring up at the stars, one of his favorite hobbies; even if you couldn’t see too many in the wake of London’s lights. He picked his bottle of lager from the roof and tilted his head up to meet it. The beer dribbled down his throat as the roof access door opened.  
  
“Hello mate,” John said in a giggle. The figure walked forward without returning the greeting. “There’s lager in the cooler if you want one,” he said, pointing his cigarette to his left before placing it between his lips and taking a long drag. The man stood over him, glaring through his glasses. “What, Mike?”  
  
“You realize he’s the only consulting detective in the world? Better than any detective at the Yard,” Stamford tried explaining.  
  
“Yes I know, I’ve been to his website. It’s one reason why I picked him.”  
  
“No, you picked his scent first, I know how you work.”  
  
“You do don’t you? Still have that wonderful scent of sherry and it is still intoxicating. Though you’ve gotten fat since I went to war. Domesticity fitting you well?” John downed the rest of his beer, tossing the bottle aside to the small pile already forming.  
  
“It’s suiting me just fine, you want another?” he questioned, already leaning to the cooler.  
  
“Sure,” John puffed. He snagged the bottle from Mike’s extended hand, twisting the cap off with his thumb. “You know him well?” John sat up on his elbows as his friend sat on the ledge.  
  
“Not entirely well, but I know him. DI Lestrade probably knows him better or his brother, Mycroft. Why the hell are you smoking?”  
  
“This isn’t smoking.”  
  
“Then why does it look like a cigarette?”  
  
“Because it’s one of those new fangled electric ones. Smoking without all the harmful side effects,” he explained, sitting up fully and playfully wagging the fake cigarette through the air. “Pardon me for getting off subject here, but when was the last time you changed? Even a little.” John took a long swig of his beer, his hazel eyes staring down his friend.  
  
“Don’t--don’t start that with me right now. This visit is not to discuss me....” He made to continue but John interrupted him.  
  
“Do you even remember what happened in the thirties at all!?”  
  
“You have to bring that up every time we see each other.”  
  
“You know what I mean, Stamford. You have a wife and kids now. I’d hate to see something bad happen to them because you failed to change for twenty odd years. Don’t you dare scoff at that, I’m allowed to worry.” John pointed a threatening finger.  
  
“It’s no worry, they’re both wolves.” John’s eyes snapped back to Stamford, who was smiling. “You were doing so many things when you got back to London that I didn’t have the time to tell you.”  
  
“Ah...well then, congratulations.” John saluted his friend with his beer and they both drank.  
  
“Now, why the hell did you pick Sherlock Holmes of all people?” Mike asked, changing back to their original subject.  
  
“You’ve smelled him. It’s a wonderful scent...and I want it.”  
  
“What about him though?”  
  
“Him! Ah! You know, I miss the look of Edwardian men. They’re....” John paused, falling flat onto the roof. “They were perfect. Their poise and posture, I mean have you seen him standing? Perfectly straight and with an arse you could easily bounce a quarter off of.” He mimicked the motion to the night air.  
  
“I see your American is still quite present.” Mike drained half his beer.  
  
“Shut up. But his voice,” John swooned. “His is one of the best voices I think I’ll ever hear in my lengthy life. It’s deep and commanding, draws your attention straight to him whenever he speaks. Can you imagine a growl emanating from that voice?” He sat up to look at Mike, whose beer was halfway to his mouth in thought.  
  
“I suppose those are good enough reasons to turn him.” Stamford finished his lager, tossing it to join the other dead soldiers. “But do you remember what happened the last time you turned someone? Sarah was it?”  
  
John slumped back to the roof in a groan. “Yeah, just before going back to Afghanistan. That didn’t end well.”  
  
“We’ve known for a while that the change does occasionally drive one round the bend.”  
  
“I’d rather not talk about it.” John threw his empty bottle at Mike, who deftly caught it one handed.  
  
“You know he’ll figure out what you are, right? He’s obsessive to the point of manic when it comes to a puzzle in need of solving. He’ll pursue it ’til it’s solved. You couldn’t have picked a more dangerous man to turn.” There was a note concern that John laughed at.  
  
He puffed his fake cigarette before breathing, “I do hope so.”


	9. Unrelated

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The characters of Sherlock Holmes and Dr. John Watson created by Sir Author Conan Doyle.  
> The setting of Sherlock (BBC) created by Steven Moffat and Mark Gatiss.  
> I do not own these characters, I’m just borrowing them for this idea.

Sherlock’s attention on the animalistic serial killer had been waning greatly over the past several days as a new body hadn’t turned up in well over a week. Without new evidence he couldn’t make any headway. He’d picked up three small cases in the meantime, though unable to completely shake the serial killings from his mind. He paced about two two one b, occasionally thumbing the strings of his violin to help clear his mind. Suddenly he became aware of a gentle sound coming from his breast pocket and pulled out his mobile.  
  
“Lestrade. Have something interesting for me?”  
  
“I’d say so, we have another one, will you come?”  
  
“Text me the address and I’ll be there shortly.” Sherlock hung up without waiting for a response, placing his violin in his chair. He pulled his coat from its hook and quickly made his way downstairs when Lestrade’s text reached him. Notting Hill, fantastic.  
  
The cab ride was thankfully quiet and a little longer than expected given the time of evening. The flat he arrived at was crowded with police officers, most looking sullen and conversing with each other. Sherlock paid the cabbie before making his way toward the flat.  
  
“What are you doing here, freak?”  
  
“Is that any way to greet an old friend, Sally?”  
  
“What are you doing here?”  
  
“I was asked.”  
  
“Why?”  
  
“To help you solve your case.”  
  
“Why?”  
  
“Because you need me.” Sherlock’s matter-of-fact voice turned Donovan’s face ugly for a moment.  
  
“Sending the freak in,” she said into her walkie-talkie. Sherlock crossed under the blue and white police tape when Sally’s voice sounded from behind him.  
  
“How many more bodies have to be mutilated before you figure this out?” Sherlock smirked and continued into the flat. “I’m talkin’ to you, freak!” she said a little louder, gripping Sherlock by the coat and wheeling him around to face her. The action made several officers around them turn, wondering about the commotion. “How many more?” she asked again, each word punctuated with anger.  
  
“Does it help that we’re more or less at the end on this escapade?” Sherlock questioned nonchalantly.  
  
“No. It should have been over when that fuckin’ note was left for you.” Her voice quivered as she jabbed a strong finger into his shoulder.  
  
Sherlock sighed, “You’re welcome to look over the evidence any time and tell me your brilliant theories on the serial killer. Oh that’s right, you have looked over everything and have nothing better to offer. So why don’t you just let me get back to my work?” He didn’t fail to notice that Sally had clenched her fist while he berated her, so when it came flying at him, Sherlock managed to block it, though he failed to avoid the heel of her opposite hand as it collided with his nose.  
  
Sherlock stumbled backward, clutching his almost broken and bleeding nose. Sally reeled her arm back once more but stuttered to a halt when Lestrade stood between them.  
  
“What the hell are you doing, Donovan!?” Officers and civilians were craning their necks to see the commotion.  
  
“I was making a point.”  
  
“That’s it. You’re off duty. Cassidy, please relieve Sergeant Donovan. Go home, Sally.” Lestrade pointed a threatening finger at her, which she gaped at.  
  
“You always take his side. Does it ever occur to you that he may be wrong?”  
  
“On a rare occasion, yes, but he manages to get it right in the end, now get the fuck out of here.” Lestrade pushed directly into Sally’s face, fighting to keep his voice low and level.  
  
“But, Sir,” she tried saying but the inspector shook his head violently.  
  
“No, Donovan, I don’t care. You are dismissed. Get out.” Lestrade leaned in to the sergeant; trying to overbear her in her heels, his light brown eyes fixed on her almost black orbs. Her lip quivered as her jaw tightened.  
  
“Yes, Sir.” Sally cast her threatening eyes to Sherlock as she turned to leave. Cassidy took his place where she had been, averting his gaze from the inspector; who was glaring at Donovan as she drove away.  
  
“Show’s over, everybody back to work,” Lestrade ordered, turning to the bloody face of Sherlock Holmes. “She break it?”  
  
“No, came close though.” He pulled his hand away to see how much blood coated it, enough. He could feel more blood slip from his nose as Lestrade ushered him into the forensic tent. Sherlock grabbed several paper towels and pressed them to his nose while pinching his bridge in an attempt to steam the flow, the pain slowly numbing away to nothing.  
  
“Finally got you, did she?” Anderson seethed from Sherlock’s left. Lestrade eyed the tech warily, afraid more fists were about to be thrown.  
  
“Chin up, Anderson, at least she’ll assuredly have the rest of the week off while your wife is away,” Sherlock jabbed, tossing the soaked towels in the biohazard bin. Anderson looked questioningly to the inspector.  
  
Lestrade hung his head before speaking. “I’ve sent Donovan home.”  
  
“For hitting him!?” The inflection on him wasn’t lost on anyone in the tent. They all looked on as Anderson raised his voice, though Sherlock ignored him as he continued to clean his face up.  
  
“I don’t want to dismiss you as well, so keep you opinions to yourself until you’re off duty. Understand?” Sherlock grinned at the force in the inspector’s tone, chancing a glance at Anderson; who was fuming. He turned from the tent, snagging a fresh pair of latex gloves so forcefully the box spilled to the floor.  
  
“Do I make myself clear, Anderson!?” Lestrade half-shouted making the latter turn.  
  
“Crystal, Sir.” His voice was forcibly level and his jaw was tightly clenched.  
  
Sherlock turned back to the inspector, an eyebrow cocked. “Oh this is going to be a fun evening isn’t it?” Lestrade allowed himself a single giggle, not missing the sarcasm.  
  
“Just what I need on this sort of high profile case.” He kicked the latex gloves under the table while pulling out a fresh box. “Try not to get under his skin too much, please?” Something sarcastic almost escaped Sherlock’s mouth, but he thought better of it.  
  
“I’ll try, but I can’t say the same for Anderson.” Satisfied with how clean his face was, Sherlock slipped a pair of gloves on and followed the inspector into the flat. It was a complete mess. Papers were tossed, chairs knocked over, and the kitchen table was sitting askew. Shards of broken glass lay strewn on the floor, occasionally crunching under a misplaced foot. As they walked further into the flat, less of the environment was disturbed until they reached the bedroom.  
  
“My, my,” Sherlock commented from the doorway. “Angry wasn’t he?” The body was lying on the bed, the head barely hanging on to the rest of the body. He grinned at the corpse, already seeing things the detectives around him had failed to notice.  
  
“Justin Miller, thirty-seven, single. Neighbors said he was a friendly man, sociable and always chatting people up. Worked at a bar in Leicester Square during the week and had a stall up in the Portobello Road Market most weekends. Neighbors said they didn’t hear anything last night though.” Lestrade knelt beside the bed. “Think it’s our man?”  
  
“I think it’s meant to look like our man,” Sherlock said with a half-smile tugging at his lips.  
  
“What do you mean? It’s the same kind of crime,” Anderson offered heatedly.  
  
“Similar, not the same. For one, the hole in the chest is far too small for our man and look, the ribs are heavily splintered. Whatever broke them took more than one hit to do it. And the y incision is too precise. Too pristine, certainly made with a knife of some sort, you’ll probably find the weapon in the kitchen somewhere. Same knife caused all these defensive wounds. Now the neck.” Sherlock squatted over the blood pool; his coat skirting near its edge, to hold the dead man’s head in his large hands. “The wound itself is messy, meant to hide the initial cause of death. See here?” He ran his pinky along an almost invisible cut hidden in the massacre of the man’s throat.  
  
“Bloody hell. The man bled to death first and the scene was made to look like the serial killer?” Lestrade mused.  
  
“Just so.” Sherlock stood and felt his fingers beneath the man’s ribs, eliciting the odd gasp from those around him. “Certainly not our man, the heart’s still here. So the mystery is, why was this man killed?” He stood; pulling the bloodied latex from his hands, to look over the whole room. An awkward silence stretched long in the room as officers kept their theories to themselves.  
  
Sherlock’s brow furrowed at a distant sound. The hustle and bustle in the bedroom made hearing other things quite hard, so he walked slowly to the doorway, his head cocked to one side.  
  
“Sherlock?” The curiosity in Lestrade’s voice made him pause and cast a faraway glance in his general direction. The quiet, almost unnoticeable sound made Sherlock turn full to the hallway, listening intently for it again.  
  
“Shut up! Everybody shut up, stop moving,” he commanded. The force of his tone shocked everyone into stillness.  
  
“What are you listening for?” Anderson droned. A quick hush was the only response he got. Somewhere in the depth of the flat a soft thump met their ears. Sherlock raised a finger at the noise and bobbed it as it sounded twice more in slow succession, then in three more quick bumps.  
  
“It’s an S.O.S. from the second floor I think.” He ran off, Lestrade and two other officers on his heels. He stopped on the top landing and just listened.  
  
“Where is it?”  
  
“It’s stopped, I can’t tell. Check every room quietly.” Sherlock streaked right while Lestrade instructed the officers. He walked slowly into the little spare bedroom, closing the door behind him. The state of the room itself seemed straightforward, but the few peculiarities about it caught his attention.  
  
“Black out shades,” Sherlock murmured, trying to pull them open. He looked down to the resistance in wonder. “That are bolted to the floor. Interesting.” The night stand and bed were also bolted to the floor. He knelt to the floor and was suddenly wishing he hadn’t peeked under the bed. An array on bondage gear had been tightly Tetrised beneath it.  
  
“Well now, that certainly would be an interesting reason to kill him.” Sherlock stood, trying both drawers on the night table, only one of them opened and; as far as he could see, there was nothing inside. He turned to the closet with a start when someone from beyond the wood whimpered. He walked briskly to the door and tried forcing them open, but they were remarkably strong and refused to yield. Sherlock pressed an ear to the wood to find, not only that is wasn’t wood but that there was in fact someone on the other side.  
  
He looked frantically around the door frame for some switch or button to open the closet, when a sudden thought snapped his head to the night table. He reached his hand into the open top drawer and felt the protruding button. Locks sprang open as he pressed it. The closet door dramatically revealed the tethered girl inside.  
  
“Lestrade!” Sherlock yelled. He ran to the girl, she couldn’t be older than seventeen. He pulled the gasmask from her head gently and instantly recognized her as the Brooklyn debutant who had gone missing a week ago.  
  
“My God,” Lestrade whispered when he finally burst through the door.  
  
“Get an ambulance!”


	10. A Breather

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The characters of Sherlock Holmes and Dr. John Watson created by Sir Author Conan Doyle.  
> The setting of Sherlock (BBC) created by Steven Moffat and Mark Gatiss.  
> I do not own these characters, I’m just borrowing them for this idea.

“Malnourished, raped, beaten within an inch of her life. You think that’s why he was killed?” Lestrade questioned loudly as the ambulance drove passed them, sirens wailing.  
  
“No, the motive was robbery. If the people who’d done this were looking for her there would have been some sign, but there wasn’t any evidence of anyone else up on that second floor.”  
  
“Robbery though?”  
  
“Obvious isn’t it?” Lestrade shook his head, encouraging Sherlock to continue. “If you’d taken a hard look at his study, you’d have seen the dust that had compiled around several objects. A man who sells antiques on Portobello Road must have some very pricy items he’s not selling around his flat. He came home in the middle of it and they killed him. Yes, at least two assailants,” he added, seeing the inspector prepare a question. “They probably figured that they could get away with it by blaming it on our serial killer. Have a good night, inspector.” Sherlock turned from the flat, but Lestrade caught his arm.  
  
“You’re not going to figure out why he took her?”  
  
“I wasn’t brought in for that crime,” Sherlock said slowly with an air that said obviously to anyone listening.  
  
“No you weren’t, but what about the one you were brought in for?” The exasperation in the inspector’s tone didn’t go unnoticed.  
  
“What of it? It’s not our man. I need a breather.” Sherlock tugged his arm from Lestrade’s hand and began walking again, unsure of where exactly he wished to go. “It’s a simple robbery, I’m sure you’ll figure it out. Though if I were you, I‘d check the bar he worked at,” he called back when he was sure the inspector was preparing to speak again. Lestrade huffed at the detective and turned back to the flat.  
  
Sherlock easily blocked out the commotion of the city around him and focused on the problem in his head, the serial killer. The robbers had easily imitated his killing, though they had missed one key element. It pushed a nagging question to the front of his vast mind, what the hell did this man do with the hearts of his victims?  
  
The cool summer night breeze swept through his curls as he walked without purpose. It wasn’t long before Sherlock found himself in the familiar surroundings of Hyde Park. He walked passed the Serpentine Gallery to a nearby bench; which he plopped into with a huff. Though his attention had recently been waning, he suddenly couldn’t get the subject out of his mind. Sherlock checked his watch. Just ten o’clock, the park would be closing in another two hours, plenty of time to put himself in the place of the killer.  
  
Sherlock closed his eyes; leaning back on the bench, and began to imagine the scenario in his palace. He grew increasingly agitated with each scene, if he had a dog, surely the victim would have noticed long before the attack and a weapon that could cause those wounds would have also been noticed long before they died. There was never any sign at the scenes that he had some sort of kit with him and there was never much blood leading from the corpses, so he didn’t carry the hearts away. So what the hell did he do?  
  
In a huff he ran his fingers over his tired eyes before checking the time. Eleven thirty, a good as time as any to make for home. Sherlock stood and began briskly trudging down West Carriage Drive, pausing to watch the quarter moon play on the surface of the Serpentine. He cast his eyes up to sky, despite waning, the moon was brilliantly white. Sherlock half smiled at it before continuing his trek.  
  
In another forty minutes, he was outside his Baker Street dwellings, hot and bothered from his misadventure. He made to open the door, stopping short when he saw that it had been forced open. Sherlock gingerly pushed the wood, knocking the door knob loose. He started upon seeing the frosted inner door.  
  
 _Do I have your undivided attention?_ adorned the glass in a thick, sickening red color and the same chicken scratch letters from the rave. Beside the phrase was the same hand print from his dream, only more defined in blood. In an instant Sherlock burst through the door; which bounced off the wall hard enough to crack the glass, shouting, “Mrs. Hudson!?”  
  
No immediate answer brought Sherlock pounding on her door shouting her name again. He turned from the door with a growl, then suddenly remembered what time of night it was.  
  
“Sherlock?” came her groggy, motherly voice. He turned with a snap, she was fine, questioning him with sleepy eyes, but fine.  
  
“You’re all right,” he breathed. He turned back to the frosted door, wondering in whose blood the message had been written.  
  
“What have you done to my bloody door?”  
  
“Not my doing, it’s only meant for me.” Sherlock swung back to face his landlady, his coat fanning out around him. “How long have you been asleep?”  
  
“Only since about ten.”  
  
“No callers?”  
  
“No callers, the flat’s been quiet since you left earlier this afternoon. Sherlock...?” she questioned when his eyes seemed far away. “Are you all right?”  
  
“For now, call the police,” Sherlock instructed, his eyes on the gravitational blood drops heading up the stairs. He followed them carefully, leaving Mrs. Hudson to her task. He noted the blood was only on the left hand side of the stairs, the information Mycroft had given him a few days before had said John Watson was a lefty.  
  
He trotted up the last of the stairs and pushed into his flat through his kitchen, avoiding the blood covered handle. Sherlock’s eyes followed the blood trail to his chair.  
  
“Fuck,” he whispered upon seeing his violin flecked with blood, it needed new strings anyway. He tentatively stepped forward, his ice blue eyes on several books sitting beside his chair. “Myth and legends,” he announced reading their spines through the red. “Why would he...,” he started saying, shaking his head in confusion when something else caught his eye. “My God....”  
  
Polaroid’s clustered the far wall, overlapping each other to form a bloody spectacle. A chest cavity was laid open, female by the look of it, no face visible in the photos. The ribcage was missing and everything that it should have been protecting was left in the open. Intestines spilled over the victims legs, draped like a sickening skirt. Her heart was still in its place but, there was something wrong with it. It was misshapen, like someone had squeezed their hand around it.  
  
Her neck wasn’t mutilated, but perimortem bruises encircled her throat. Her neck! Suddenly Sherlock recognized the lean subject and the mop of dark curls hanging there. He yanked out his mobile and dialed Lestrade.  
  
“We’re on our way,” the inspector answered.  
  
“Don’t come to Baker Street. Head for Donovan’s, she’s dead.” He eyes weaved over the photos once more, then the writing scrawled around it.  
  
 _Come and get me, Sherlock_


	11. The Game is On

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The characters of Sherlock Holmes and Dr. John Watson created by Sir Author Conan Doyle.  
> The setting of Sherlock (BBC) created by Steven Moffat and Mark Gatiss.  
> I do not own these characters, I’m just borrowing them for this idea.

Sherlock stood outside Donovan’s flat with his uneasy stomach. They’d never been on good terms with one another, but this was no way for anyone to die. The scene had been nauseating in person, most of the Yard was present outside, many consoling a blubbering Anderson. Sherlock looked up when Lestrade exited the room.  
  
“I want him. Tell me you have something conclusive.”  
  
Sherlock shook his head. “I’m sorry Lestrade. But I do wholeheartedly believe it is John Watson.” His voice was firm making Lestrade nod.  
  
“Then how do we get him?”  
  
“It’s going to take a few days to put together, but we will have him. The real question is, how do you want to deal with him?”  
  
Lestrade roughed a hand through his silver hair. “I can’t sit by and let him rot in jail for this. I want him punished, badly.”  
  
“All right then,” Sherlock smiled.  
  
\- - - - -  
  
Stamford burst through the roof access door, making John look up from his book. His brow furrowed at the look on his friends face.  
  
“What?”  
  
“They’ve issued a warrant for your arrest.”  
  
A slow, easy smile crept across John’s eager face. “About damn time. It‘s been what, four days since I killed her.”  
  
“You had to go after an officer of the Yard, didn’t you?”  
  
“No one insults what’s mine, besides it was the best way to get his focus back. Now, off to Bart’s with you before they get here. I can’t have them arresting you too.” John waved his book at his friend, but Mike refused to move.  
  
“You be careful, they’re pissed.”  
  
“I imagine that they are. Now go,” John’s voice turned hard as both men heard the sirens ringing through the air. He cocked his head in their general direction. “They’re making good time. Bye, Stamford,” John grinned, turning his attention back to his book.  
  
“I hope to hell I get to see you again. Just so I can tell you what a big cock up this all was,” Mike laughed bitterly.  
  
“Go to your wife and kids,” John replied not looking up. Stamford nodded slightly before leaving his friend to his desired fate. A few minutes later, John set the book on the lip of the roof and began stretching. The stench of anger was palpable despite the squad of policemen being a ways off. John began his breathing exercises when the cars came into view of his flat.  
  
He leaned over the edge when they came to a stop, a chorus of, “He’s on the roof!” met his ears. John grinned at them, he wasn’t going to be here for long. Then he smelled him, the silver haired fox amongst the officers. Gunpowder, leather, and a hint of hazelnut, a fascinating scent, he’d love to have it one day.  
  
John slipped on his favorite black coat and readied himself for the brutal run to Baker Street. He smirked at the sound of their thundering boots on his stairs, hearing several of them actually enter his flat, but the inspector was still en route to the roof. John hopped up and down a few times as a light rain began to speckle the rooftop.  
  
Lestrade burst through the roof access door, gun drawn and trained on the man at the other end.  
  
“John Watson?” His voice was forced calm, but anyone could hear the quiver of anger lying just beneath the surface.  
  
John gave him a two fingered salute. “Tah,” he said with a grin. “If you don’t mind, I have somewhere else to be just now.”  
  
“John Watson, you are under arrest for the murder of Sergeant Sally Donovan as well as fourteen other London citizens.”  
  
“I don’t have time for this,” John growled, launching into a hard run for the adjacent building. Several bullets sailed passed him, two ripped through the fabric of his coat. He jumped from the roof and almost missed catching the opposite building when one of Lestrade’s shots found its target. Another bullet shattered the brick next to his head as he pulled himself up. Lestrade’s next shot also found its home, right beside its brother in his side.  
  
John glared at the officers as they reloaded, locking eyes with the inspector. He huffed at the latter and began running along the rooftops, blood ebbing from the wound in his side. When John was out of sight, Lestrade rang Sherlock.  
  
“He’s on his way, let’s hope you know what you’re doing.”  
  
\- - - - -  
  
After running three or so miles, John dropped to one knee with a snarl. The two bullets in his side had moved and found each, the friction causing him considerable pain. The rain began pelting down in earnest as John removed his bomber jacket and dug two fingers into the wound. He grit his teeth as he began fishing for the bullets, they were just beyond his reach so he allowed his claws to grow and snagged both from his flesh.  
  
His fingers popped from the wound with a ugly noise and it instantly began to heal. For a moment he cupped the two foreign objects in his clawed hand before tossing them aside. They rolled down the slanted roof and hit the asphalt with a metallic PING. John breathed deeply as his regeneration took place, it would never matter how long he lived, healing after being shot was a pain you never got used to.  
  
When he no longer felt blood dripping from himself, John sat up. He was only a few streets from his target and he needed to get there before the police. He snagged his jacket and quickly jumped the alley while pulling it back on. He turned his head toward the sound of distant sirens and knew he had to move fast.  
  
John pushed himself hard until he was at the alleyway behind Baker Street. He knew the layout pretty well, the top window was to an unused bedroom; his most likely way in, next down was the kitchen to two two one b and below that was to the landlady’s kitchen. John was debating the best way to enter when the coming sirens made his decision for him, a dramatic entrance it would be. He jumped, digging claws into the roof tiles of the building. He slowly let himself down until he was hanging over the kitchen window. He could smell the landlady through her open windows, wisteria and baking flour; a pleasing scent for an older woman.  
  
“Move it, Watson,” he said shaking himself from his thoughts. He heaved his legs out and swung them into the glass as he launched himself from the wall. He landed on the kitchen table, startling the man sitting near the fireplace. “Hello, Sherlock,” John smiled, shaking bits of glass from his person and allowing his claws to slide into recess.  
  
“I expected you to come in from upstairs.” There was no hiding the shock from his voice or his face. John smiled at this. He upturned every object on the kitchen table as he monkey crawled across it before finally setting both feet on the floor.  
  
“I like to be unpredictable, it makes things so much more interesting.” John turned his head back the way he’d come, his brow furrowed as the sirens wailed by Baker Street.  
  
“I feel the same.” Sherlock raised the air gun and fired. The sudden pain in John’s left shoulder made his eyes shift momentarily, but they were hazel when he turned back.  
  
“Fuck!” John cried, seeing a thick tube with an orange feather sticking from him. He took the tranquilizer shakily and pulled, a drop of blood sitting on its end. Sherlock’s eyes grew wide when John stayed standing after thirty seconds.  
  
“I am not like any man, you’ve ever faced,” John slurred, taking an uneasy step forward, then a second. Sherlock tossed the gun aside, retrieving another from his desk. He fired again, hitting the same mark, making John wobble where he stood. A low growl rumbled through the air, making Sherlock uneasy.  
  
“I am very unhappy right now.” John lunged messily for his prey, but the tranquilizer was working through his system quickly which made his movements slow and sloppy. Sherlock dodged him easily and reached for the first heavy thing he could get his hands on. He swung as John pressed on him again, connecting with the right side of his head. John instantly blacked out.


	12. Upping the Ante

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The characters of Sherlock Holmes and Dr. John Watson created by Sir Author Conan Doyle.  
> The setting of Sherlock (BBC) created by Steven Moffat and Mark Gatiss.  
> I do not own these characters, I’m just borrowing them for this idea.

Pain blossomed from the right side of John’s head as his mind snapped back into consciousness. He could taste rust, earth, and apricots in his mouth and spit out the collected blood. His thoughts were having trouble becoming one cohesive memory. John opened his eyes only to immediately close them as a bright light blinded him and set a dizziness upon him.  
  
“What the fuck hit me?” he muttered, his voice quiet and strained. There was a tightness about his throat he only just noticed. He tried reaching for it but his hands were cuffed tightly behind his back. He could feel the heavy metal collar and gauntlets digging into his flesh.  
  
“I did,” came a voice from beyond the light. John grinned in pain at the owner.  
  
“With what?” A dull throb stemmed from John’s left shoulder. He tried opening his eyes once more, keeping them open a little longer each time he blinked. The light was becoming less blinding but the ache in his skull deepened.  
  
“Heavy dose of tranquilizer first, but you didn’t go down until I clocked you with a wrench,” giggled the voice. John returned the giggle, only to wish he hadn’t. He rolled his eyes as the nausea threatened to come up.  
  
John could smell the stone floor he laid on and fresh earth with a hint of something that had gone sour. It took several moments for his brain to recognize the sounds of wildlife somewhere beyond thick walls. The scent of rain and mist hung in the air and he could smell the early morning sun rising.  
  
“Where are we?” he asked, rolling from his shoulder to his knees. He felt the weight of a heavy chain drape across his bare back. Blood trickled from the deepening cuts around his wrists, staining his skin and jeans where it dripped. John strained against the cuffs a moment, they were strongly built with a chain almost too short to allow much movement.  
  
“Dartmoor. Out of the way enough that no one will ask any questions. And I can dump your body in the Mire if it comes down to it,” Sherlock explained, still standing beyond the spotlight. John tried to focus, but his mind subtly refused to obey. He started taking in his surroundings, seeing but not recognizing the barbed wire cage around him.  
  
“How....” John shook his head in an attempt to clear the fog from his brain.  
  
“You’ve been out several days now. Thanks in large to the numerous tranquilizers I gave you,” Sherlock admitted in a light tone. “The residual should keep you pretty groggy for the next couple days.”  
  
A single, sarcastic ha rang in the air between the men. “You still have no idea what I am, do you? What you’re getting yourself into?”  
  
“You mean what you pulled me into?”  
  
“You’ve caged a dangerous myth, Sherlock Holmes, but you still have no idea what I am exactly.” While speaking, John slowly struggled to his feet, a feat that Sherlock wouldn’t have thought possible for several days yet.  
  
“You’re not a myth, but you certainly are no average man.” He hadn’t counted on this John Watson being such a strong willed man.  
  
“I haven’t been a real man for years.” John’s knees shook beneath him as he took a step forward. He stretched his neck, feeling the pull of the collar on his flesh.  
  
“Of course you’re a man, you just aren’t average,” Sherlock said in a tone that was more like he was trying to convince himself that his statement was true. He eyed John as he took several uneasy steps forward, the chain-links clinking together as it tightened.  
  
“Not average is an understatement, sir,” John whispered, reaching the end of his tether with a stumble. He tugged at the gauntlets holding his wrists captive, a vicious snarl curling his lips.  
  
“What are you then?” Sherlock questioned, finally stepping into the spotlight. He wasn’t wearing a jacket and his sleeves were rolled up to reveal fit arms splattered with blood.  
  
“Myth, legend, science fiction...whatever the hell you wanna call it.” John fell to his knees as dizziness overcame him. When the nausea passed, he looked to the silhouette of Sherlock. “You still haven’t answered my question.”  
  
“You asked one?”  
  
“How did you get me out here? No offense, but you don’t look that physical and I’m heavier than I look.” He shifted to sit Indian style on the floor, no need to add his knees to the list of parts of him in pain. “Though, you do have a brother in the government and a friend on the police force. Which is why they never came to your flat. Wonderful set up,” he commented, his memory quickly becoming clearer the longer they spoke.  
  
“I thought so. Now answer my question,” he began.  
  
“No you still haven’t explained how you got me out here.”  
  
“We put you in a coffin, put that coffin on a train, and came the four hours to Dartmoor. Satisfied?”  
  
“Tah.”  
  
“Now, what the are you?”  
  
John sighed, a little smile dancing on his lips. “You didn’t read those books I left out did you?”  
  
The distinct cocking of a gun removed the smile from his face and replaced it with a sneer. “You don’t have time for games. Answer the fucking question.”  
  
“I’m a werewolf, Sherlock.”


	13. Visitors

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The characters of Sherlock Holmes and Dr. John Watson created by Sir Author Conan Doyle.  
> The setting of Sherlock (BBC) created by Steven Moffat and Mark Gatiss.  
> I do not own these characters, I’m just borrowing them for this idea.

Sherlock’s brow knit together at the statement, his gun dropping from its target. “Say that again.”  
  
“I am a werewolf.”  
  
“There’s no such thing.”  
  
“I said myth, legend, and science fiction for a bloody reason!” John’s voice grew louder with each word until he closed his eyes in pain. “I shouldn’t have yelled. That is what we’ve been boiled down to. We walk down your streets, shop at your malls, eat in your restaurants and none of you are any the wiser.” He rolled his shoulders trying to relieve their growing discomfort.  
  
“If you’re really what you claim to be, you can’t change to prove it, being the new moon and all. I have to go on your word alone,” Sherlock mused, stepping behind the light and shutting it off, plunging the room into darkness despite the rising sun peaking through the small windows. John’s heightened eyes adjusted quickly and he saw much more of the area around him. The barbed wire glistened against the bleak walls in the light of the sun. Water pipes with large shower heads glared down at him.  
  
“You have to admit that no other man would have recovered as quickly as I have from such large doses of tranquilizer. It would have killed anyone else.”  
  
Sherlock’s answer was drowned out by a loud gurgling sound. The walls echoing the noise so perfectly that John had no idea what was going to happen until it began to shower down on him. He hunkered his shoulders from the cold water and let loose an agitated snarl.  
  
“Salt water,” John murmured as he got to his feet and moved out from beneath the spray only to be drenched by one of the other heads. His wounds burned under the water as the salt disinfected them. After half an hour the water automatically shut off. He shook away the excess water, his hair standing on end. John hissed at his stinging wounds as he tugged at the cuffs and stretched his neck.  
  
“Why did you kill Sally Donovan?” came Sherlock’s voice from behind him.  
  
“That’s what this is all about? That woman!?” The surprise in John’s voice was easy to catch. “I imagine that silver fox of yours wants the answer to that question more than you do.” Sherlock nodded in the affirmative. John scoffed turning from the detective.  
  
“Why did you do it!?”  
  
“Nobody insults nor assaults what is mine!” he growled, turning back to Sherlock with such force that the chain from his collar pulled its support crooked. He started at John’s strength, he was steady, coherent, and getting stronger. The tranquilizer had already run its course through his system.  
  
“So I’m yours am I?”  
  
“And not just because I claimed you.”  
  
“Why else?”  
  
“Because you’re curious about me. Ever since I left you my little love letter, you have been thinking about nothing but me. What I do, how I do it, what do I do with everything when they‘re dead. That is until you lost interest.” John’s face turned momentarily ugly at his last statement and he began pacing the length of chain.  
  
“I didn’t exactly loose interest, you stopped being interesting. You didn’t drop a body for over a week. If you’ve been watching me, you know how quickly my mind jumps from one thing to another. What?” Sherlock questioned when John stopped pacing and his attention shifted.  
  
“Gunpowder and leather,” he grinned. “Your detective inspector is here and...,” he paused, sniffing the air in earnest. “Do you know anyone who smells a bit like chocolate cake?”  
  
“What?” Sherlock’s head snapped to the pounding on the door, then turned his eyes back to John; who was smiling. He walked cautiously to the door, pulling it open slightly. “What the hell are you two doing here!?”  
  
“Let me see him.” Lestrade pushed passed Sherlock to look at the man in the cage. Mycroft was gentler in his entrance, staying close to the walls for observing.  
  
“Your provisions,” Mycroft said, dropping a suitcase onto the floor, watching Lestrade circle the cage. “Quite angry, isn’t he?”  
  
Sherlock ignored his question. “What are you doing here, Mycroft?”  
  
“You gave me a list of things you were going to need, I brought them.”  
  
“I didn’t expect you to bring them yourself. You shouldn’t have come, the tranquilizer has already worked its way through his system.” Sherlock hoped the urgency in his voice portrayed the danger they were all in.  
  
“Oh,” Mycroft murmured, his eyes on John this time.  
  
“I’m only going to ask you this once, why did you kill Sergeant Donovan!?” rang Lestrade’s voice in the small castle.  
  
“I suppose for being a cunt isn’t exactly the answer you’re looking for?” Lestrade’s eyes went wide and he pulled his gun. A smile was trying to pull at the corners of John’s mouth.  
  
“Say that again,” his voice was calm as he took aim at Watson’s right knee.  
  
“Oh come off it, you know she was a cunt.” The shot rang out and brought John down. His kneecap shattered on impact, bits of bone and blood flying through the air. “Fuck!” he screamed, making the brothers look to each other. They both had heard something inhuman in his voice. In his fury, Lestrade buried another bullet in the meat of John’s left shoulder, marring his grotesque scar even more and spraying blood over his bare chest.  
  
Sherlock grabbed the gun when the inspector took aim for a third time. “You know that this is too easy a way for him to die, especially after what he’s done.” Lestrade looked into Sherlock’s impossible eyes and gave a reluctant nod. In the sudden silence, the tinkle of metal on stone rang out loud. All three men looked within the cage, the bullet from John’s shoulder was spinning on the ground; leaving a little blood trail as it danced about.  
  
They watched in amazement as the wound healed itself. Sherlock’s eyes instantly traveled to his knee, which was growing skin over what he was certain had been a shattered bone.  
  
“That’s...impossible,” Lestrade whispered, his voice almost failing him.  
  
“Incredible,” came Mycroft’s voice.  
  
John was breathing deep, eyes closed as his body finished regenerating. “You never really get used to that.” He rolled over, testing his new knee gently before standing again. He cast his gaze to Sherlock, who was looking as surprised as any human he’d ever known. “Proof enough for you?”


	14. It Will be Done

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The characters of Sherlock Holmes and Dr. John Watson created by Sir Author Conan Doyle.  
> The setting of Sherlock (BBC) created by Steven Moffat and Mark Gatiss.  
> I do not own these characters, I’m just borrowing them for this idea.

“You mind explaining what’s going on here, Sherlock?” Mycroft called from across the room, but Sherlock wasn’t paying him any attention. His eyes were locked on John’s, seeing the threat beyond them, almost able to see the animal he claimed to be. “Sherlock?” He started at his brothers touch and pulled Lestrade from the cage.  
  
“I can’t explain just yet, I don’t have enough data. I promise to let you know everything when it’s done,” he tried assuring them. Mycroft was questioning him with his eyes and Lestrade couldn’t take his eyes off John.  
  
“Lestrade.” The inspector shook his head and turned to Sherlock. “It will be done, don’t worry. Now, go home, visit Molly,” he offered, getting a nod from Lestrade before he exited the castle without another word.  
  
“Are you going to be all right little brother?”  
  
“So that’s him?” John inquired, his head cocked to one side as he surveyed Mycroft.  
  
“Just leave, Mycroft,” Sherlock warned.  
  
“I’d like a few words with him first.” The statement caused Sherlock to roll his eyes but he stepped out of his elder brothers way just the same.  
  
“So you’re the little man who’s been causing such a terrible fuss all over London?” John didn’t miss the mocking tone, he simply smiled. There were more differences between the Holmes brothers than there were similarities. He was just taller than his younger brother, his hair was redder and thinning, but they certainly stood and spoke very much the same way. Though his scent was as far from Sherlock’s as possible, smelling of chocolate, chai, and cream.  
  
“Yes I am,” John admitted calmly.  
  
Mycroft’s eyes searched him. “How did you do it?” he asked when his search turned up nothing usable. The bullet wound had healed completely without leaving a mark aside from the blood that had splashed across his chest. Blood gently oozed from beneath John’s collar as he stretched his neck in an attempt to seem bigger than he really was.  
  
“Practice.” John seethed through clenched teeth, turning from the Holmes brothers and sitting in the center of the still wet floor. Mycroft turned back to Sherlock, his jaw set and a grim look in his blue eyes.  
  
“Step out with me please,” he whispered as he passed on his way out. Sherlock followed Mycroft with his eyes until he heard the door close. He turned back to John, sitting quite still on the floor; possibly meditating. He walked to the wall and flipped the switch turning the water on before meeting his brother outside.  
  
“Thank you for the provisions,” he said, wishing to ignore the subject Mycroft wanted to talk about.  
  
“That man is unstable.”  
  
“I realize that.”  
  
“Do you? I made sure that there were a number of extra tranquilizers in the case, I suggest you use them wisely,” Mycroft ordered. “Sherlock!?” he added when his brothers attention was focused elsewhere.  
  
“I have this under control.”  
  
“You’ve never tortured a man before, it can easily get out of your control. Keep that in mind little brother.” Mycroft turned sharply, pausing when he reached the passenger door. “Ring if you’re in any trouble.”  
  
“I will,” Sherlock smiled, trying to be sincere. His brother returned the small smile and entered the vehicle. He watched the jeep drive into the low morning fog before walking back in. The noise of the water thundered in Sherlock’s head a few minutes until his ears were used to the roar. John hadn’t moved an inch, his eyes were closed and he seemed content. Bits of bone, blood, and the bullets had been washed from the center of the cage and were swimming in the little collected pools of water.  
  
Twenty minutes later the water shut off, leaving a strange silence hanging in the room. Sherlock stood from his cot, bringing the tranquilizers and Styrofoam case with him. He sloshed through the gathered water around the cage to see John still hadn’t moved. He carefully reached between the barbed wires and yanked on the chain, pulling its attachment to his back.  
  
John huffed, opening his eyes to glare at Sherlock. “Have you never heard the term ‘Let Sleeping Dogs Lie’?”  
  
“You were asleep?” John sat up, shaking the fresh salt water from his hair.  
  
“In the military, you learn to get it where and when you can. No matter how uncomfortable you are.” John rolled his shoulders to emphasize the point. “I hadn’t even noticed you turned the water back on.”  
  
SPLAT  
  
John’s eyes snapped to the organ now laying on the floor, turning the water around it red. “What is it?”  
  
“You know very well what it is.”  
  
“Why is it here?”  
  
“Because you want it, badly from the way you’re licking you lips.” Sherlock eyed John with interest, kneeling to his level. John cocked his head to the right, staring at the heart on the floor. Part of him did long for it, but he knew better than to accept gifts from strangers. He stood and planted a foot square over the organ, squashing it with an unsettling SQUELCH.  
  
“Been dead too long to eat,” John mocked.  
  
Sherlock gazed at John several moments before speaking. “Why their hearts?”  
  
“Why not?” He knelt back down, staring into the detectives eyes.  
  
“You mean there’s no reason behind it?” John grinned at the surprise as Sherlock stood, taken aback by the realization.  
  
“There’s no good reason for it. But if you’re really itching for an answer, to me they are the tastiest organ in the entire human body. So filled with a persons scent, taste, life that...uh, I go through a bout of needing to eat them every few years and I’ve gorged myself plenty recently. God’s honest truth. Most werewolves don’t even like the hearts, they just enjoy tearing and tasting the flesh.” The honestly in John’s answer startled Sherlock into silence.  
  
“Is...that why crushed Donovan’s instead of eating it?” he stammered, his grip on the air pistol tightening.  
  
John flared his nostrils thinking of the Sergeant. “You should have smelled her. Vanilla and almonds, not bad in of themselves, but there was bitterness there as well. It swamped her, almost masking a once beautiful scent. I wasn’t about to choke that down.” He started as a dart sunk into his left shoulder. He sneered at the orange feather then at Sherlock.  
  
“How many do you think it will take to knock you out?” he inquired; his angry voice ringing through the air, reloading the air pistol.  
  
“I don’t know. You kept me out for four days, how many did you go through then?” Sherlock could see John trying to fight the chemicals working their way into his system. He unloaded another dart, eliciting a snarl from him. John clenched his fists as he dropped to his knees, giving the chain holding his cuffs together another decent yank, but the chain still refused to snap.  
  
He cast his eyes to Sherlock, daring him to sink another into his arm. He accepted John’s challenge. The third dart caused his eyes to close and his lips curl in a sneer. A low, rumbling growl filled the air, making the gun tremble in Sherlock’s hand. Suddenly he froze, complete disabled, his brain skid to a halt, his heart paused, and his lungs refused to give or accept air.  
  
John opened his eyes to stare angrily at Sherlock, but they weren’t his natural hazel. His sclera dramatically darkened to black, while his pupil contracted to a pinprick as the iris brightened to an impossible yellow orange color. They were a startling contrast to his natural color. John grunted against the pull of the tranquilizers, but eventually tumbled back into their hold.  
  
\- - - - -  
  
Hours later, the sound of steady rain dragged John back into the conscious world. Dull pain pulsed over his chest and he could smell his own sweet blood in the moist air. He growled at the sudden scent of salt water and thrashed into a standing position; pulling the chains support more towards the center of the cage, straining several strands of wire until they snapped. The water turned off as soon as he stood.  
  
“Just washing all the blood off you,” Sherlock murmured from his cot. John looked to his chest, numerous incisions marred his flesh and one or two squares of skin were beginning to fill in as he regenerated.  
  
“You are not a nice man.”  
  
“Neither are you.” Thunder sounded, drawing John’s attention.  
  
“Evening now. You kept me under a good part of the day,” he admitted, turning to Sherlock, noting the pistol in his hands.  
  
“I had to give you another one, but I can tell it’s already run through your system.” John didn’t answer him, his threshold for this sort of tedious bullshit was reaching its limit. “I bet no one has tried shooting you in the heart before,” Sherlock mused, turning the gun over in his hand.  
  
“It’s just below the surface, shoot me and this only ends badly for you.” John turned from the detective when a shot rang out.


	15. Coming to a Head

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The characters of Sherlock Holmes and Dr. John Watson created by Sir Author Conan Doyle.  
> The setting of Sherlock (BBC) created by Steven Moffat and Mark Gatiss.  
> I do not own these characters, I’m just borrowing them for this idea.

Smoke floated through the air as the bullet flew at John in slow motion. The casing bounced on the stonework with a metallic PING as the nine millimeter round buried itself into the meat of John’s back and out his chest, just barely missing his heart. The force of the hit threw him off balance slightly. He became still, his head looking down to his bleeding chest. John could feel the regeneration beginning as he started to hyperventilate.  
  
Sherlock took aim for a second shot when his face tightened as a voice; that wasn’t exactly John Watson’s norm, exited the man’s mouth. The chain holding his cuffs together snapped with a single yank, the cuffs themselves buckling open from the force. They clanked to the ground as John tossed about his cage. Sherlock’s eyes were wide with horror at the sight before him, unknowingly holding his breath as the scene unfolded.  
  
The metal about his neck creaked against the strain of muscles as John’s neck thickened to support his growing snout. Fangs grew long as a thunderous growl escaped the stretching maw. John dug lengthening fingers beneath the metal choking him, pulling until the steel finally snapped, snagging on the barbed wire as it went flying. Denim ripped as his legs thickened and a long fleshy tail protruded from the fabric. He tore the shredded remnants from his waist as sandy colored fur began to spring from his flesh. John howled, tossing his head as muscles and bones stretched.  
  
Sherlock stared on in fright and amazement. John’s feet lengthened, growing great claws that dug into the stone floor. It looked quite painful and for the merest moment, he felt sorry for this John Watson. He hunched to the ground in a whimper, becoming still.  
  
Finally, Sherlock began to breath again, albeit shakily. John’s hands had become enormous, platter sized appendages with too long fingers and deadly claws. His fur was short and a little shaggy, much like his natural hair. Joints popped and cracked as John shot to his feet with a sudden howl that made Sherlock back into the wall. He looked him up and down, the wolf was stretching and straining his muscles as he adjusted himself to their bulk.  
  
Sherlock gazed at the new figure in the cage; whose tail whipped madly through the air, almost unable to believe it was the same man. The wolf was lean and well toned, possibly better than in his human form. A huff brought Sherlock’s attention to John’s yellow orange eyes. They were hard, angry, and; dare he think it, a little hungry. The creature before Sherlock easily dwarfed him by eight inches.  
  
Edging toward the door, he made sure to flash the pistol, drawing John’s eye momentarily. The low, rumbling growl emanating from the wolf resonated in Sherlock’s chest, similar to a club with it’s bass up too loud.  
  
Bursting through the door into fog and rain on the moor, Sherlock glanced back at the beast. He’d lunged at him, tearing his flesh on the barbed wire. John whimpered at the wire wrapping his frame as he hit the brick wall. He tried pawing at it in an attempt to remove it from his fur and skin. Sherlock released a nervous giggle as he turned to run, slamming the door behind him.  
  
Thick fog coated the ground easily obscuring the landscape from view and the rain pouring down on Sherlock’s head didn’t help. The ground felt soft beneath his feet and for a minute or two a paralyzing fear hit him, he had no idea how to navigate the mire. He searched around for some sign of the nearby road, but became distracted at the distant sound of splintering wood.  
  
In its own right, the rain was partially beneficial to Sherlock, constantly wiping his scent clean. He began running in the direction of the road, the soft ground occasionally sucking at his feet as he went. A nearby howl made him quicken his pace and shift direction. He stood on firm ground, casting his eyes around the moor in search of John. Rain stirred the fog everywhere he looked, but there was no sight of the hulking figure of the werewolf.  
  
Another howl pressed Sherlock into disaster. He let out a yelp as he sank waist deep into the mire. He stared in horror as the muck surged about his frame, staining his clothes with a graphite sheen. The moment he regained his senses, Sherlock tried awkwardly to place his hands on the firm ground behind him, but the sucking ground refused to give way, dragging him a little deeper when he settled.  
  
“Shit,” he cursed loudly, continuing to try and pry himself from the muck. He remembered a number of stories about people and animals who wandered into the mire, none of them ever came out again. His breath quickened as an involuntary panic took over his body, though he tried desperately to keep his mind as calm as possible.  
  
Something glittering in the fog caught his attention a moment. The pistol. Sherlock tried reaching for it but it was beyond arms reach and the motion made him suddenly realize he was now chest deep. He tried to shake the fear from his mind but the more he moved, the quicker he began to sink. He tried reaching for the gun once more, pressing dangerously forward in his attempt as desperation won out over rationality. His right arm slipped beneath the surface, pulling him back from the weapon.  
  
Sherlock struggled to regain his arm from the thick mire. It was a struggle that took most of his strength and left him breathing hard when his black, mud coated hand broke the surface. He looked about him, his shoulders still barely above the surface. Sherlock stretched his neck, feeling the muck slide between him and his clothes.  
  
He closed his eyes against the rain and whispered, “It’s the panic that can kill you,” but it had little encouragement. Knowing your way out of a mess like this is one thing, but actually being in this mess and trying to get yourself out is very different. Sherlock held his arms aloft and tried to calm his breathing. Bubbles popped around him allowing his thin frame to slide further beneath the surface. He breathing became hard and quick once more when he felt the wet slip of mud on his exposed neck.  
  
Pain sprouted in his right shoulder causing him to shout. Sherlock cast his pained eyes to see what had caused it, only wishing he hadn’t. John’s muzzle wrapped his shoulder; nose hidden in the muck, fangs sunk deep into his flesh. Sherlock screamed in pain as the wolf gave tentative a tug upwards, giving shout after shout with each inch as John slowly pulled him from the mire. He wrapped his right arm around the massive neck next to his head, hoping to alleviate some of the pain. John slid an arm into the mud, wrapping it tightly around Sherlock’s middle, digging claws into his side. Sherlock grunted as his waist came free of the mire.  
  
“Let me go,” he cried through gritted teeth. He felt John’s hot breath as he huffed, giving another yank that pulled his knees free. The mire quickly refilled the void left by Sherlock’s body. Blood mixed with mud as John released his hold, cradling the others body with his. Words failed Sherlock as the pain spread up his neck into his brain. Before blacking out, he felt John’s other clawed hand at his knees, pulling him completely free of the mires hold.


	16. Data, Data, Data

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The characters of Sherlock Holmes and Dr. John Watson created by Sir Author Conan Doyle.  
> The setting of Sherlock (BBC) created by Steven Moffat and Mark Gatiss.  
> I do not own these characters, I’m just borrowing them for this idea.

Running water, Sherlock could hear running water. He wasn’t sure from what direction is was coming but he could hear it, a sensation he wasn’t exactly sure why he was glad of it. Sherlock groaned, stretching his neck left then right, wincing when it was straight again. It was too much effort to open his eyes and there was too bright a light for him to keep them open anyway.  
  
“Fuck, Mike. Be careful with those things.” Came a voice to Sherlock’s ears he was sure he knew, but couldn’t put a name to just now.  
  
“Well you were the one who ran through barbed wire full wolf weren’t you John? Clot.” Came a second voice that was less familiar, but still known to him. “I told you this was going to be a cock up.”  
  
“Shut up, Stamford. It could have been worse.”  
  
“It can always be worse, John.” This John grunted as something painful affected him. “All right, all right, hold still. This is the last one.” There was a unnerving SQUELCH and a PING of metal on metal.  
  
“Ah, shit that hurts.”  
  
“I bet it does, now wash up,” Mike stated unapologetically, slapping John’s shoulder as he walked under the water, hissing as it burned his wounds clean. He washed the blood and muck from his face, even chancing to gurgle the salt water in an attempt to wash his mouth of the sourness of the mire. Stamford tossed him a towel when he exited the spray.  
  
“Thanks for coming out here and bringing spare clothes with you.” John toweled himself quickly, slipping into his fresh clothes with a sigh.  
  
“You’d’ve done the same for me. You gonna be all right?”  
  
John piled into his new jeans with a nod. “You be careful with that one okay?” Mike nodding his head back to Sherlock, who was slowly coming to.  
  
“I make no guarantees, Mike, but I’ll try,” John laughed. Stamford waved his goodbye and exited the little castle into the pitch of the night. Sherlock turned his heavy head to see the man called John.  
  
“You...,” he tried saying, but his mouth felt dry.  
  
“Holy shit, you’re awake.” John trotted over, his bare feet slapping on the stonework floor. “Honestly, I’m a bit surprised by that,” he said, standing over Sherlock, patting a hand on his bare stomach.  
  
“Where...,” Sherlock tried again, this time his brain stubbornly refusing to work.  
  
“Still in Dartmoor, couldn’t move you just yet. You were in a lot of pain, I don’t expect you to remember that much just yet. And the tranquilizer certainly isn’t helping that brilliant brain of yours.” John tussled Sherlock’s curls before turning off the salt water spray and walking away.  
  
Following John with his eyes, Sherlock saw him pluck something from a saddlebag on the floor near the wrecked cage. He groaned, rocking his head from side to side in an attempt to clear the fog from his memory; though it only helped him feel nauseous.  
  
“Oi! Shtop movin’ aroun’ o’er ‘ere,” John ordered through his toothbrush. He spit and gurgled, the sour marsh taste now mingled unpleasantly with mint. “I wouldn’t move that shoulder too much if I were you.” Sherlock looked in John’s general direction, unable to see him through the spotlight.  
  
“Why? Ah!” He shifted on his cot and met with pain. “What...?” Sherlock cast his eyes to his right shoulder. It was a wound that would turn into a grotesque scar when it healed. He could clearly make out the canine teeth that had pulled him from the grip of the deadly mire. The wound curved down his pectoral, stitches carefully holding it closed. He grit his teeth as he shifted his shoulder again, feeling the same curved wound on his blade. Then the evenings activities slammed to the front of his mind.  
  
“What have you done?” Sherlock shouted, his brain suddenly clear.  
  
“Is that how they taught you to say thank you at those posh boarding schools you went to?” John questioned indignantly.  
  
“Thank you?” Sherlock grunted as he eased up onto his elbows. “Thank you for what!? You’ve turned me into a monster!” he hissed.  
  
“I did just save your life!” John shouted, his voice ringing out in the small space and somehow making Sherlock feel incredibly small. “I could have easily let you drown out in the fucking mire. But if you want to talk semantics, which position would you rather be in right now, suffocating out in the muck like one of those mindless little ponies or alive to live a long life as a goddamn werewolf?” John yanked his ribbed tank over his head in frustration, his dogtags bouncing against the fabric as he thumbed them over the collar.  
  
“I...where are my clothes?” Sherlock asked when he sat up and the sheet covering him fell to his bare waist.  
  
“Fresh change is on the floor. You’re lucky you left your mobile in you jacket, the rest of your suit is ruined.” John pointed to a mass of dark slop near the cage. His mobile sat atop his fresh clothes. Sherlock picked it up and thumbed the screen awake, it showed several missed calls from Mycroft and three texts from Lestrade.  
  
“I suggest you try figuring out a way to tell them what went wrong. They’ll want to know,” John yawned, stretching his arms high above his head and cracking his neck.  
  
“How?” Sherlock wondered, reaching down for his pants and slipping them on, wincing slightly.  
  
“You’re the genius, you’ll figure something out. Please, no shirt for tonight. You’ll tear my stitches.” He added when Sherlock snagged his shirt from the floor. His sleepy voice didn’t go unnoticed by Sherlock.  
  
“Your stitches?”  
  
“You seem to forget, I am a doctor.”  
  
“But you’ve killed people.”  
  
“I have good days,” John smiled wearily, trudging over to the cot. He lifted Sherlock to his feet to get a better look at the wound. “I have left you with quite a beauty. The stitches should be able to come out tomorrow.”  
  
“Tomorrow?”  
  
“You’re a wolf now, Sherlock. You’ve seen what the body does when it’s injured. This is the only wound that never fully heals though.” John prodded several points of the tender flesh with a surprisingly gentle finger.  
  
“You’re tired,” Sherlock pointed out.  
  
“Well spotted. One, I was tortured a good part of the day. Two, I did just lift you, a buck sixty pound man, from the great Grimpen Mire with my jaw. Weighing a lot more when you think about, all caked with mud. And three, you currently have no idea what the change takes out of man, especially when one hasn’t fully changed in eight years. Bloody exhausting work. Now I’m going to get some well deserved sleep, you should get some too. We’ve a week to get ready, and by the look of you, we’re going to need it.” John turned from the detective, trotting to the spotlight and turning it off. The room dipped into pitch blackness, startling Sherlock a moment but he was surprised how quickly his eyes adjusted to the sudden darkness.  
  
Across the small room he saw John setting up the spare cot in the remnants of his cage. Sherlock stood motionless for several moments, running the nights events over in his head. This man who had every reason to let him die had saved him.  
  
“You weren’t going to let me die out there, were you?”  
  
“No, but you did go and get yourself rather lost in the foulest smelling bit of bog you could find. I almost didn’t find you,” John added in a small, muffled voice that Sherlock could just hear over the pounding rain. “Could you save the inquisition for another time?”  
  
He opened and closed his mouth several times before giving up his attempt to thank John for saving his life. The cot strained under Sherlock’s weight as he sat back down, ignoring his trousers for now. He laid back and held his mobile over his face. He had no idea how to tell his brother and friend that he failed to kill a man, that he’d become something impossible, and that he no longer had any intention of trying to murder John Watson.  
  
\- - - - -  
  
Sherlock’s eyes snapped open at the first sound of birds. They were clearer than any other noise that he was sure they were inside the small castle. His eyes wandered the small interior space but he failed to find his query. Sherlock groaned as his muscles protested his attempt to sit up. He ignored them and forced himself upright. John was still asleep on his cot. A number of the supports for the cage had bent, two posts laid on the ground in a tangle of barbed wire. Sherlock winced at the pang if pain in his shoulder and brought a hand to it to find that it wasn’t the wound that hurt, but the stitches holding it closed. He ran delicate fingers over the already pink, almost completely healed scar.  
  
A breeze blew in through the broken door, rustling Sherlock’s curls and bringing a fresh scent to his nose. He’d never known you could smell brightness, but here he was sniffing it from the air. He quickly tugged his shirt on, slipped into his trousers, socks and shoes. He reached the door when John stirred on his cot, making Sherlock pause. His open shirt floated around him as the breeze blew by him, he’d let John wake in his own time.  
  
Stepping out onto the dirt road that lead to their sanctuary, a litany of new smells reached him as the summer breeze skirted across the moor. He basked in the morning sun, listening to the birds alight on the air. After ten minutes he turned back inside, his need for answers almost too great to resist. Sherlock walked as quietly as he could to John’s cot, the heels of his shoes sounding loud against the stonework in the quiet. He knelt at the sleeping man’s back, observing the stout roundness of John’s scar compared to his own sharp, lengthy one. He reached out a tentative hand and traced a light finger over the teeth marks in the tanned flesh. When Sherlock rounded over his shoulder, John snatched his wrist.  
  
“Sorry,” he gasped. “I was admiring your scar.” John eyed Sherlock warily. The detective raised his free hand to show he had no weapon in hand. Satisfied, he released Sherlock as he sat up, stretching.  
  
“Why did you sleep over here?” Sherlock asked before he could stop himself. John glanced at him over his shoulder, a smirk clearly on his face.  
  
“Would you rather I slept closer to you?” John toyed.  
  
“That’s...not what I meant,” he said, furious with himself for asking the stupid question in the first place. “Why did you sleep in the shattered remnants of the cage?”  
  
“Oh, I’d thought you’d feel safe with me over here in this thing. Even if it’s not all here anymore.” John massaged his jaw, clearly still in pain from the nights events. “I gather you’re not used to asking questions?” He stood from his cot to pull the medical bag towards him.  
  
“Yes, I’m usually the one answering them,” Sherlock confessed, turning back to his own cot.  
  
“Nope, come back here. I’m taking those stitches out.” John motioned to the free portion of his bed. Sherlock shrugged off his right sleeve as he sat. The doctor was incredibly gentle as he removed the stitches, Sherlock only hissed once or twice in pain, but stared in awe as the little holes left by the thread healed almost instantly.  
  
“Is this...the only way you change someone to a wolf?”  
  
“No, all it takes is a scratch, jus a little scratch. Even from a partially turned wolf. If I had just reached my arms down to pull you out last night, I guarantee you’d still be turning into a werewolf in a week.”  
  
“How old are you?” blurted Sherlock, a question that had been nagging at him since he first met John. The information he’d gotten from Mycroft said he was born in nineteen seventy-one, but Sherlock was suddenly certain it was wrong.  
  
“Turn so I can get at you back. How old do I look?” John countered.  
  
“No more than thirty--”  
  
“Then I’m thirty.”  
  
“When you say it like that, you’re clearly not. How old are you?” he inquired again, turning to face John.  
  
He dropped his tools into his lap and looked to the ceiling in thought. “I celebrated my hundred and sixty-first birthday this year.”  
  
Sherlock lost all composure, his face going slack as he looked in John’s eyes. “...what?”  
  
“One hundred and sixty-one. I was born in eighteen fifty-one. Got my first medical degree in eighteen seventy-eight and promptly went to war,” John explained.  
  
“I’m going to be thirty-two the rest of my life?”  
  
“Yes,” John answered simply.  
  
“You really were a member of the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers?” Sherlock inquired in awe.  
  
“In the Second Anglo-Afghan War yes. Captain then too. I was turned by a fellow Fusilier who explained nothing to me, just let it all happen. Though I didn’t have as much time between my bite and my full moon, only two days. The first night I killed three people, the second I killed four, and on the third night I killed two,” John paused, seeing the morning after carnage in his mind. “I never felt more guilty in my entire life.”  
  
“This man explained nothing to you?”  
  
“Nope, I had to learn it all on my own. So you can imagine how surprised I was when my second full moon came around and I didn’t turn, though I could feel the wolf lurking there. Do you like horror movies, Sherlock?” He shook his head ruefully. “Well then, let me tell you something that’s very different from how we’re portrayed in Hollywood. After your first full moon you have complete control, over the wolf, over the change, over everything.”  
  
“What do you mean?”  
  
“Werewolves are usually portrayed as mindless beasts and they once were but evolution happens to everything. So you remember what you’ve done as the wolf and you can control it. Changing whenever you want, however far you want. You know you have the fortunate luck of a compassionate werewolf who’ll stick with you...until you decide to leave,” John added bitterly.  
  
“Compassionate?” The disbelief in Sherlock’s voice was noted.  
  
“In werewolf terms, yes. Most are like the bloke who turned me, they bite you, they leave, end of story.” John stood, kicking the medical bag as he did. He ran his hands roughly through his sandy hair. Sherlock thought about his narrative, wondering if it was all really true when a thought occurred to him.  
  
“You said three nights, the moon’s only full one.”  
  
“You should know as much as anyone who casually looks up at the night sky, that the moon is basically full the day before and the day after, it’s more than enough to turn men into wolves.” John slapped a stray strand of barbed wire absentmindedly.  
  
“How did you turn? Last night was the height of the new moon.”  
  
“Ah yes, the great moon holds no sway over werewolves anymore, but no one’s about to update the lore books, far too much effort about something everyone thinks is bollocks anyway. A wolves only unwilling turn is their first, which for you is in a week. I have a lot to prepare you for,” he explained, turning back to Sherlock.  
  
“Silver...?”  
  
“Does nothing, just something the Eastern Europeans made up. Anything can kill us actually. Lycanthropy does have it’s advantages though. We’re technically immortal, inability to age and all but, oxygen deprivation or anything that destroys the heart or brain will permanently put an end to us.” John flopped back onto the cot, which protested his weight.  
  
“So you decided to go back to war, where you would willingly be shot at and possibly killed at any time?”  
  
“Basically, being shot at doesn‘t bother me. Despite being immortal, I do believe we all have to go sometime, so I’m not afraid to give my life for my country. I mean, do you have any idea how close you came to ending all this last night?”  
  
“Fairly close, I am a good shot.”  
  
“Better than a lot of snipers I’ve seen,” John grinned.  
  
“Lycanthropy,” Sherlock turned the word over in his mouth, getting himself used to the idea.  
  
“Oh, it’s what we people in the medical and scientific professions call out affliction. It’s just fancy and most mortals don’t know it,” John laughed. “We are incredibly strong and quite fast. You’ll have the best vision ever for the rest of your life. You’ve probably already noticed your sense of smell, its universally the first sense to heighten. And soon you’ll be able to hear everything across the moor. I’d be lying if I said it wasn’t a little overwhelming when it first happens.” John gazed out the small window, clearly listening to some distant sound Sherlock couldn’t hear yet.  
  
“So what now?” Sherlock asked after several calm minutes.  
  
“We prepare you for the moon.”


	17. One Week Later

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The characters of Sherlock Holmes and Dr. John Watson created by Sir Author Conan Doyle.  
> The setting of Sherlock (BBC) created by Steven Moffat and Mark Gatiss.  
> I do not own these characters, I’m just borrowing them for this idea.

The little castle in Dartmoor loomed before the jeep as they pulled up. John shut the car off and piled out, grabbing his gear from the back seat. Sherlock sat for a moment, now that the night was here, he wasn’t entirely sure he was ready for it. He was well prepared for the transformation, but he wasn’t ready for it. He’d felt different all day. His heartbeat was faster, his senses more acute, and he felt terribly hungry, even after he was sure his stomach was full.  
  
“It’s a bad idea to change in the car,” John shouted, making Sherlock huff and slam the door as he exited the rented vehicle. He curled his nose at the foul scent of the mire.  
  
“How do you get used to that smell?” he half-shouted as John reached the newly installed door.  
  
“Oh that, you don’t. You just sort of learn to ignore it, like all the mingling scents in London and any other large city. Though sometimes it is so overpowering you can’t ignore it and it makes you nauseous.” He unlocked the door and ushered Sherlock in.  
  
“You had _this_ installed?”  
  
“Well, I busted the old wooden door and we can’t actually have you running wild out there.”  
  
“But I can navigate the mire with this nose.” He started when John smacked him upside the head.  
  
“That’s exactly my point. You could navigate yourself straight into some families home and kill them all. You have no control over the wolf yet and let me tell you, that can be devastating.” There was a pang of resentment in John’s voice that didn’t go unnoticed. The thick metal door closed and locked itself, giving Sherlock an imposing sense of doom.  
  
“What about your safety?”  
  
“I’m already a wolf, you can’t turn me.” John shouldered his pack to the floor.  
  
“I could hurt you though.” There was concern in his voice that Sherlock hadn’t entirely expected.  
  
“I’ve been in plenty of dog fights, besides I’m older than you, I know how to handle myself in a new puppy situation.” John stripped his jacket and shoved it into his pack. “Now, get naked.” Sherlock looked at John in utter shock at the change in subject. “Your muscles will be growing faster than your clothes can tear, believe me it’s just easier in the long run. Especially when you consider these pricy suits you wear,” he explained, plucking at the sleeve. Sherlock took the advice and eagerly began escaping his Spencer Hart outfit. He handed the garments to John and caught him gazing.  
  
“Yes?”  
  
“Nothing. Your muscles have filled in nicely. What, two or three sizes now?” John questioned nonchalantly, folding the suit carefully and tucking it into his pack. Nude Sherlock was terribly distracting and a wonder to view.  
  
“Almost three, normal?”  
  
“Below average actually, for now anyhow. When I turned Mike he was on the...thicker side of physical and he slimmed down pretty quick to a wonderfully muscular man, though he’s domesticated now and quickly gaining the weight back.” John stripped his own clothes and his dogtags, shoving them all in his pack. He shouldered the rucksack and jumped to the low hanging showerheads.  
  
“And you?” Sherlock leaned naked against the wall; which felt refreshingly cool against his skin, as he watched John climb the water pipes to the ceiling, where he secured their provisions.  
  
“I was already fit, being in the war and all,” he explained, shimmying down the pipes. “I went up maybe one more suit size and I’ve kept myself that way since.” He clapped a hand on his own bare chest as he settled back on solid ground. “Why did you save this for right before the bloody moon rises?”  
  
“I never had the chance to ask this week, did I? You spent it all trying to prepare me for this. Telling me what this would be like, how much pain I’ll be in. That I wouldn’t remember anything for the next three nights. And for the first time in my life I never got a word in edgewise. Now that’s it’s here, I’m not sure I’m ready for this...but as I’ve been given no choice in the matter,” Sherlock paused, wondering which statement to go with next when John spoke first.  
  
“You never told Mycroft and Lestrade, did you?” Sherlock turned his head away almost shamefully, trying to ignore the question. “Did you tell them I was dead?” Sherlock sighed, running a hand through his curls. “Sherlock, you’re going to have to tell them one day.”  
  
“I know, I just.... I don’t know how. How did you tell your sister?”  
  
“You don’t want me answering that question.”  
  
“How did you tell her?” Sherlock pressed.  
  
“My sister was drunk, she doesn’t remember that I told her,” John grinned.  
  
“Really?” Sherlock smirked, John nodded. “Why did you pick me?” he asked finally.  
  
John flopped Indian style to the ground. “You were interesting, and it was your scent that caught me first. I’d never smelled anyone like you and it was like,” he stalled, lost for words. “I don’t know what it was like, but it was exhilarating and I knew a man who smelled like you must be interesting. Only the most intriguing men have interesting scents and I love interesting men.”  
  
The statement gave Sherlock pause as he thought on what had been said. “So are you...,” he started, trying to figure out a delicate way of asking his question.  
  
“An arse-bandit?” John offered, making Sherlock giggle. “Only when the mood takes me. I’m mostly a ladies man.” He smiled as a silence settled between them.  
  
“I never did get the chance to thank--.” Sherlock stopped mid-sentence as he felt a change somewhere deep within himself. He caught the grin on John’s face as he turned to the small window and laid his ice blue eyes upon the almost full moon. He could feel the change beginning and turned to John, a fearful look plaguing his features. The stark contrast of Sherlock’s wolf eyes was brilliant. His sclera darkened as his iris shifted to the brightest and deepest sky blue at the center surrounded by a ring of shimmering gold.  
  
“My, my. You are a special wolf aren’t you?” John mused as the change progressed. Sherlock screamed out as his bones lengthened, joints popping as muscles rearranged themselves to fit their new girth. His growl resonated within the small space as his snout grew long, his fangs growing fast. A long fleshy tail grew as Sherlock thrashed about in pain. Claws protruded from lengthening fingers and feet.  
  
Curly red black fur sprouted from Sherlock’s pale skin as the transformation neared it close. His chest popped out as ribs adjusted themselves, turning his already gaunt figure more ghastly. Sherlock pounded large fists into the ground as his body became still, the transformation complete. His fur shined red in the moonlight, his short tail flicking angrily to and fro.  
  
John initiated his own change, taking the pain in stride as his body changed. He released a low growl when his own change was finished and crouched as Sherlock shot to his full height with a thunderous howl, easily standing seven feet tall. John’s bright eyes observed that his figure wasn’t as changed as he would have thought, though his wolf more resembled that of a jackal than any local breed of wolf with its too long snout, broad ears, and angled features. Sherlock’s muscles were taught and extremely fit as he rolled his shoulders, becoming accustom to their new bulk.  
  
 _Anubis,_ John thought to himself when Sherlock turned his still impossible eyes to him. _This is going to be a fun night._  
  
\- - - - -  
  
The morning shone bright and sunny as Sherlock stirred, curled in a ball on the floor. His limbs ached and his head throbbed against the sunlight. He rolled onto his back, just becoming aware of running water. Sherlock opened his eyes, wincing slightly in pain as he sat up. John was true to his word, he remembered nothing of the previous night.  
  
Blood caked his hands and was streaked all over his body. Sherlock ran shaking fingers over the odd claw mark and watched in awe as they healed beneath his touch. He stood shakily before gaining his balance.  
  
“Rough night?” John asked. Sherlock’s head snapped to him. He was standing beneath the spray washing blood from his own body.  
  
“What happened last night?” Sherlock inquired, suddenly aware of the taste of John’s blood in his mouth. “Why do you taste and smell apricots?”  
  
“You know, I have never figured that one out. Dirt and earth I understand, Afghanistan and all, but apricots? No fuckin’ clue. But just imagine,” John cried, his arms sweeping open to the carnage around him as he turned. Chunks of stone were crumbling from the wall. There were divots in the floor where claws dug in as two wolves wrestled. One of the supports for the cage was bent as if someone had been hit with it, when Sherlock saw the bruise along John’s back he knew it to be true. “Only two more nights of this and then you’re in control mate.”


	18. Epilogue - Breaking the News

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The characters of Sherlock Holmes and Dr. John Watson created by Sir Author Conan Doyle.  
> The setting of Sherlock (BBC) created by Steven Moffat and Mark Gatiss.  
> I do not own these characters, I’m just borrowing them for this idea.

“I have never felt more tired in my entire life,” Sherlock whined, slumping down onto his couch and stretching long on it, crossing his ankles as he settled. John surveyed the flat, still covered with loose leaf papers and photos of his victims; though the Polaroid’s of Donovan had been removed. “How are you not incredibly tired?” he asked in a very sleepy voice, his arm covering his brilliant blue eyes.  
  
“Because I’m more used to the stretching of my limbs and muscles than you are,” John replied. “Sorry about your violin by the way. I couldn’t resist.”  
  
“It needs new strings anyhow.” Sherlock shimmied deeper into the couches comfortable hold. His mobile rang out from his breast pocket and he absentmindedly thumbed the accept button.  
  
“Sherlock!” He shot upright; as if shocked, at the sound of the familial voice on the other end.  
  
“Mycroft!” Sherlock cast worried eyes to John; who paled slightly at the name.  
  
“Where are you?” Mycroft demanded heatedly.  
  
“The flat,” he admitted when he became lost for words.  
  
“We’ll be there momentarily.” Mycroft hung up before giving Sherlock a chance to protest.  
  
“We?” He thought about the statement a moment. “Shit, he’s bringing Lestrade with him and they’re on their way here. I was supposed to have killed you last week.” He roughed his hands through his dark curls as he slumped back into the couch. John stared at baffled Sherlock, almost relishing in his frustration.  
  
“Try and break it to them gently,” John offered, slowly making his way from the sitting room at the sound of brakes outside the flat.  
  
“You’re not helping,” Sherlock growled.  
  
“I don’t mean to be,” he cooed as he slipped down the hall leading to Sherlock’s bedroom. “Good luck,” John murmured low enough for only Sherlock to hear.  
  
“Gently,” he whispered to himself at the sound of feet trudging up the stairs. Sherlock sniffed at the air, taking in their scents for the first time. They were just as John had described, Mycroft literally smelled like chocolate cake and Lestrade smelled like the job.  
  
“Where have you been?” the inspector asked as they burst through the kitchen door, piling over the papers into the sitting room.  
  
“No hello?” Sherlock teased, looking between the two men.  
  
“I agree with Lestrade, where the hell have you been?”  
  
“Dartmoor,” he answered flatly, pinching the bridge of his nose in frustration.  
  
“Don’t be funny, Sherlock. We’ve been ringing you all week with no answer. What...you’ve put on weight,” Mycroft noticed.  
  
“It’s all muscle, I weigh two and a quarter now.”  
  
“What happened out there?” his brother demanded, determined to get the truth from his little brother.  
  
“I was torturing a man. He was a wealth of knowledge and took the whole ordeal in stride, like a good soldier,” Sherlock lied, placing his arm over his eyes, wishing for nothing more than to be asleep. Mycroft knocked his limb away in irritation.  
  
“Will you take this seriously!?”  
  
“Sit. Down,” Sherlock warned, his voice stern as he fixed his brother with a hard gaze. Mycroft started at the look he received, there was something different about his little brother, but he couldn’t place what it was, though he remembering seeing a similar look in the hazel eyes of John Watson. Sherlock slowly sat up, swinging his legs to plant his feet on the floor. Mycroft backed into the desk and leaned against it while Lestrade simply backed away, unknowingly standing between Sherlock and John.  
  
“This is your way of breaking it gently?” John whispered from the hall, making Sherlock loose a tremendous laugh. His brother and the inspector cast worried glances to each other, hearing something inhuman in him.  
  
“How badly do you want the true answer to that question?”  
  
“How about I wing you if we don’t get the truth?” Lestrade inquired, pulling his weapon from its holster.  
  
“No, no. I wouldn’t do that. That’s why he killed Donovan.” The statement stopped the inspector in his tracks.  
  
“What?”  
  
“He’s an alpha, quite possessive of what is his and she hit me. Bloodied me rather good if you remember.”  
  
Lestrade nodded. “That’s it?”  
  
“As he told me, ‘Nobody insults nor assaults what is mine.’ He’s claimed me as his,” Sherlock explained, eyeing Lestrade’s pistol.  
  
“You speak of him like a dog,” Mycroft wondered.  
  
A slow smile crept across Sherlock’s lips as his eyes dramatically traveled to his brother. “Funny you should say that.”  
  
The chambering of a round made the brothers look to the inspector. “Is he still alive?”  
  
“The answer won’t comfort you.” Lestrade’s eyes narrowed hard momentarily.  
  
“What happened out there, Sherlock?” Mycroft tentatively pried.  
  
“I lost control and shit hit the fan. Perhaps you’d like to listen to the narrative, Lestrade, before you go shooting up my flat.” His grip tightened on his gun, but the inspector nodded. Sherlock returned it with a curt nod. “As I said, he’s a wealth of knowledge, we all saw what happened to his knee, the way he healed, I was immensely curious. So I put him under and I cut him, flaying some of his skin and watching as it grew back. Possibly the most fascinating thing I’d ever seen.  
  
“Then I wondered how a bullet near his heart would effect this regeneration of his. Worst idea I have ever had. He turned into a monster and I panicked,” Sherlock paused, remembering the fear he’d felt that night. “We know I’m a city boy at heart, I hadn’t learned how to navigate my way through during the day, so when he chased me onto the moor, I sank in the mire, which only caused more panic.”  
  
“But it’s just quicksand, Sherlock,” Mycroft interrupted. “You know your way out easily.”  
  
“Have you ever set foot in the Grimpen Mire?” He grinned when his brother shook his head. “It’s like nothing else the way it sucks you under. And it doesn’t take much to have a hold on you. The mire is like nothing else, supernatural in its own right. It’s two very different things to now your way out and get your way out and I couldn’t. I was up to my neck, so sure I was going to suffocate out there. And then Jo--he saved me. Sank his teeth into my shoulder and yanked me up from its hold.” Sherlock massaged his long fingers into his scarred shoulder.  
  
“First name basis with him are you?” He caught the anger in Lestrade’s voice as a bitter note mingling with his natural scent.  
  
“He did save my life.”  
  
“You said he sank his teeth into your shoulder, I’ve seen him, his jaw’s not that big.”  
  
“Gently,” John warned, making Sherlock grin as he undid his shirt buttons to reveal his scar. Mycroft gasped at the grotesque thing. Lestrade simply looked from it to Sherlock’s face and back.  
  
“Those are canine teeth,” Mycroft murmured.  
  
“I said he became a monster.”  
  
“What you’re saying is impossible. Creatures like that don’t exist.”  
  
“I watched him change. I saw the impossible happen before me, willing myself that it was some sort of nightmare, but it wasn’t. And the past three nights...I have changed,” Sherlock admitted, hoping the message was clear. “By saving my life, he infected me with his curse.” Silence hung awkwardly around the room as Sherlock’s words sank in.  
  
“What are you saying, exactly?” Lestrade inquired slowly, his brow furrowed in confusion. Sherlock cast his eyes to his brother, who was still trying to absorb the words.  
  
“I understand it’s hard to accept...,” he tried to say but Lestrade interrupted him.  
  
“No. What are you trying to say!?”  
  
Sherlock closed his eyes, physically incapable of seeing the look in their eyes as he spoke, “I am a werewolf.”  
  
“They don’t exist,” Lestrade said flatly, his voice distant.  
  
“Yes we do,” came John’s voice as he leaned; arms crossed and eyes yellow, against the opening to the hallway. All eyes turned to him and the inspector raised his gun. Sherlock launched himself from the couch and was on Lestrade in seconds, the gun barrel bent in his palm. Lestrade gazed in disbelief at his useless weapon, backpedaling away from Sherlock when he had turned to berate him.  
  
“I forgot to mention that I’m also an alpha and quite possessive of what I‘ve claimed.” Sherlock turned to his brother who started at his eyes, sliding down the length of the desk; knocking books and paper askew, in an attempt to get away. He had felt them shift and knew from the fear palpitating the room that there was no longer any doubt about what he was saying. “Any other questions?”  
  
END


End file.
